


By Fortune or Design

by farseersfool



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Ruby/Sam Winchester, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:57:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farseersfool/pseuds/farseersfool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. The one where Dean is an alcoholic and Castiel is assigned as his substance-abuse counselor, and their relationship doesn't stay strictly professional. But maybe that's for the best, in this case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Fortune or Design

**_1\. The half-remembered wild interior_ **

Green eyes bored into him with simmering hostility, and every line, every taught muscle in the figure across the desk spoke of defensiveness. Still, this wasn’t particularly daunting, nor was it unusual. After all, no one truly wanted to attend substance-abuse counseling.

He calmly matched the hot stare with a cool one of his own, open and questioning, tilting his head slightly to the side. In cases like this one, with a lot of displayed anger, he had learned to let the client speak first. After a moment, the other man began to fidget, and dropped his gaze down to the desk, refocusing his ire on the manila folder lying on its surface, the tab marked with a name in crisp black ink: Dean Winchester.

He muttered something under his breath.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m afraid I didn’t catch that.”

Those eyes shot up, met his again. “I said that this is pointless. I don’t see how getting my head shrunk is supposed to…miraculously fix everything.” He paused, his face trapped somewhere between angry and miserable. “And what can you do, anyway, huh? I don’t know you. And you certainly don’t know me.”

He nodded solemnly and took a long moment before replying. “You’re right. I don’t know you, Dean. But I would like to, so that I can help you. Still, all of the hard work is up to you. The only one who can fix you is you.” He took a breath. “Still, I believe that you will find these sessions very helpful, if you can come to trust me.” He noted with interest that the moment the word trust had been said, Dean’s face closed up, hardened.

Nevertheless, he went on. “So, let us begin to get to know one another. I am Doctor Castiel Novak. I have a twin brother, Jimmy, and an older sister, Anna, and a large extended family.” He paused, waiting to see if Dean would volunteer information. Predictably, he did not.

“And you? Is there anything you can tell me?” he prompted. Of course, Castiel already knew about his younger brother, Sam, the lawyer. Dean had been living with Sam since he had been released from the hospital, and had only agreed to these sessions on the basis that he could return to his own apartment. But the rest was a mystery, a blank slate. Castiel preferred it that way, unbiased, no preconceived notions.

Dean was looking at the desk again, this time shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Not really,” Dean answered, at long length.

Castiel couldn’t say he hadn’t been expecting that. So, he nodded slowly again, and replied, “That’s fine. What would you like to talk about?”

More shifting, more study of the faux-wood swirls on the desk.

“Nothing, really. This is…” He sighed, and abruptly stood up, Castiel’s eyes tracking the motion coolly. “Look, Doctor Novak, I’m sorry for wasting your time, but I really don’t see how this is going to help me. I’m just going to…go home, and deal with my problems on my own.”

“Dean, you could have died,” Castiel said bluntly. “If your brother had not have found you when he did, there is a high probability that we wouldn’t be here having this conversation.”

Dean scoffed. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, Doc, no offense to your lovely company. I’m not doing the world any favors, being here.”

He didn’t say anything, only looked sadly at his client. After a moment, Dean’s shoulders sagged, and he dropped back into his chair with a weary sigh. There was another long moment of silence, and Dean’s knuckles were white on the arms of his chair.

“My brother—Sam. He’s the only family I have left,” he offered finally, haltingly, but Castiel was pleased by the effort.

“And how would you characterize your relationship with your brother?” He asked.

“When we were kids, all we had were each other. Dad wasn’t really…you know, around. Not after Mom died. I mean, he was around sometimes, but not really…” Dean trailed off, looking for the word.

“Accessible?” Castiel offered.

He nodded. “Yeah, that.”

“And when did your mother pass away?” Castiel asked after he was sure that Dean didn’t have anything else to say.

“I was four…Sammy was just a baby. There was a fire, and Mom didn’t get out of the house…” He grimaced, looking at the walls, out the small window, at anything that might change his focus, and Castiel decided to press that issue in another session, preferably once Dean had lost some of his wariness.

Castiel finally opened the folder, then, though he didn’t look at the contents. “I read that your father moved you and your brother around a lot, sometimes staying in a town no more than a few weeks. Would you like to talk about what that was like?”

“Dad was—” He stopped, and the grimace this time was more painful. “I…really don’t want to talk about Dad. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Castiel replied, filing that information away for later discussion. “We don’t have to talk about anything that you don’t want to.”

Dean swallowed visibly, and nodded. After a moment, he went on. “Sammy and me weren’t perfect, even back then. When he left for Stanford, I was furious, and we didn’t talk for two years. But then…some shit went down, and we kinda ended up back where we started, with just each other.”

“Was that when you lost your father?”

“I just said don’t want to talk about him,” Dean said back quickly, the anger flaring up again.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel said, walls cracking enough to let a frown slip through. The silence returned to the room.

At last, Dean broke it. “Hm,” he said with a smirk, relaxing for the first time since he’d walked into the office, “So you do have facial expressions.”

“I’m sorry?” he said again, and this time it was a question.

“You were all kinds of stoic over there. I was starting to think they’d assigned Keanu Reeves for my counselor. It was kinda making me nervous, Doc,” Dean said, smiling now, and looking more relaxed in his chair. So, clearly Dean was one who took refuge in audacity, and made light of things to downplay them. He would have to remember that.

“I apologize,” Castiel said slowly. “I can try to…emote, more, if that will make you more comfortable.”

Dean shrugged. “Nah. At this point I think it’d freak me out.” The strain in his smile made it clear that he was trying to find another excuse to put off the serious conversation, so Castiel decided to steer it back on course.

“And your current relationship with your brother?”

Dean sighed, tensing up again. “It’s…better than it has been, I guess. He’s moved on past everything, went to law school and all that smart kid shit. He’s coping better than me, that’s for damn sure.”

And there it was. “You’re referring to the drinking.”

He shrugged in reply, and sat very still. Castiel tilted his head to the side. So there was more? That he would save for a later session.

“Are there any…events that cause you to want a drink? In day to day life?” Castiel asked. Dean barked a bitter laugh in reply.

“I wake up in the morning and everything’s exactly the same.” Then, his posture drooped, and his voice became softer. “I didn’t think of it as any sort of addiction,” he spat the word, as if to say that he was better than that. “It was just a way to forget, you know?” He looked at Castiel then, and, against his will, he found himself nodding in agreement. He reigned the motion in before it became too noticeable—he wasn’t supposed to let the client know that he might have once had…problems of his own. If Dean noticed, he didn’t comment. “But I didn’t really think anything of it until I woke up in the hospital.”

“And do you think, now, that it is a problem?” Castiel prompted, thinking that they were beginning to get somewhere.

But then, the look that met his own was again hostile and defensive. “Don’t you think that nearly dying, being moved into my brother’s, and this little…intervention have convinced me, Doctor Novak?” His grip on the chair arm looked painful. “I don’t even know why Sammy thought this was a good idea. I can take care of myself. I’ve always taken care of myself.”

Ah, there _._ A breakthrough. Something he could work with.

Castiel spent the rest of the hour coaxing more information out of Dean, who closed up at that point. It wasn’t…encouraging, but Dean was far from the first introverted client that Castiel had encountered in his four years as a substance-abuse counselor. He had hope for this man.

**_2\. Surging at the blood's perimeter_ **

It was Thursday again, and Castiel was preparing to leave the office for the evening when his desk phone rang.

“This is Doctor Castiel Novak; how may I help you?” he answered, trying not to show his impatience to be home.

“Um, hi, Doctor Novak. This is Sam Winchester, Dean’s brother?”

Oh, well, that was entirely different. Even if he had only seen Dean for three sessions at this point, he was fascinated by the case. “Hello, Sam,” Castiel greeted him, with more warmth in his voice this time.

“I was hoping you had a few minutes…to talk about my brother. I’m just, I’m really worried about him,” Sam said hesitantly, and he frowned at that.

“I can’t talk to you about what Dean has told me, Sam,” he said slowly.

“Oh, I know that!” Sam assured him hurriedly, “I just wanted to say that…Dean’s probably being a jerk about having to go to counseling, but I think it could be really, really good for him, you know?”

“How so?” Castiel asked, wanting another perspective on the matter.

“Dean needs someone he can trust…that he doesn’t have to be strong for. He doesn’t let anyone in, and I think he needs to. Even with me…when we were growing up, Dean practically raised me. He still feels like he has to take care of me, so I can’t be the one he talks to.”

A pause, and Castiel honestly didn’t know what to say.

“Just…don’t give up on him, Doctor Novak. Please.”

“I won’t,” Castiel said sincerely. And it was a promise, even if he didn’t say so.

**_3_. _To hide below the ancient barricade_**

It was roughly five minutes before Castiel was supposed to see Dean for his seventh session. He was downright frustrated with Dean, unable to crack this one. The occasional bit of information would spill out, usually unintentionally, but it was like having four or five pieces to an enormous, infinitely complex jigsaw puzzle and trying to glean the picture from that. He frowned to himself, leaning over the manila folder without opening it. Then, he looked up, attention caught by the sound of raised voices approaching down the hall to his office. Dean’s he recognized instantly. After a moment, he placed the other as being Sam. However, before he could figure out what they were arguing about, the door flew open, and Dean confronted him angrily.

“So, I hear that you and my brother have been talking about me behind my back,” he said, voice rough and harsh.

“Dean, for the last time, I _told_ you to leave Doctor Novak out of it; _I_ was the one who made the call!” Sam said as he filed into the office behind his brother. Castiel resisted the urge to raise his eyebrows upon seeing Sam in person. He hadn’t been expecting someone so…tall. Suddenly, his office seemed a lot smaller.

“Please,” he said over their continuing words, “Sit down.”

Immediately the argument quelled, and both Winchesters sat, Sam contrite and Dean darkly staring at some point between his brother and Castiel, jaw clenched.

“Now, I’m going to assume that this is about the conversation we had a few weeks ago, Sam, correct?” Castiel asked, and Sam nodded quickly.

Then, Castiel turned to regard Dean, and said lowly, “I can assure you that nothing of what went on in these sessions was discussed. I _do_ keep to the doctor-patient confidentiality code.”

“I just don’t like it when people conspire to fuck with my life without even telling me!” Dean said hotly, lip curling into a sneer before his face went blank again.

“Dean, please, it’s not like that,” Sam pleaded.

“Then what was your little phone call supposed to be, huh?” He turned to Castiel, “ _Sam’s_ not your client, so _tell me_ what he said.”

Castiel didn’t think that was a good idea, and didn’t say anything for a moment, diffident.

Finally, Sam was the one to break the quiet. “Fine! I apologized for your being a bitch about needing professional help, and then told him about your trust issues.”

“And what, exactly, did you tell the doctor about my _trust issues?_ ” Dean demanded between gritted teeth.

“Only that you have them,” Sam defended himself, chin high. “I felt like he deserved a warning.”

“Is that true?” Dean’s eyes met his, and Castiel could see the hostility waver for a moment.

He nodded solemnly. “I promise you, it is. Now, would you like to get on with your session, Dean?”

The anger didn’t fade. “Yeah, I guess,” Dean very nearly growled, surprising Castiel. He had been expecting a _“Not really,”_ followed by some sort of sarcastic remark. For a moment, he allowed himself the idea that the other man was beginning to trust him, but, given how stubborn Dean had already proven himself to be, Castiel didn’t seriously entertain that theory. More likely, something had happened to upset Dean.

“Sam, if you would…?” Castiel said, and the younger Winchester nodded, stood up, and slipped out of the office.

As soon as his footsteps had faded away, Castiel asked Dean, “Something is bothering you. I know it’s not really that your brother spoke to me. Would you like to talk about that?”

“No, I don’t fucking want to talk about my feelings, _Doctor Novak,_ Jesus _fucking_ Christ! I promised Sam I’d go to these damn sessions, but this isn’t turning into some shitty chick flick!”

“So something _did_ happen,” Castiel said calmly.

Defensive posture. “Get off my case and stop acting like you can read my fucking mind!”

 _Oh._ A frown. “Dean, when was the last time you had a drink?”

There was a moment when Castiel was sure that Dean was going to continue his tirade, but then his face fell and guilt flooded his features. “Um. Last night,” he admitted, looking anywhere but at Castiel.

“Does Sam know?”

A long pause. “No.”

“Were you planning on telling him?” Castiel asked, no judgment in his voice.

No response. He carefully studied Dean’s face, waiting for some indication of what he was thinking. Then the dam broke, and the walls began to crumble.

“No. I wasn’t,” he said brokenly, and Castiel didn’t miss how he was blinking rapidly, or the hand he scrubbed over his eyes. “All my life, I’ve always let everyone down. I just… I don’t want to disappoint anyone else. Letting Sam down like that…I can’t…” The hand clamped over his mouth then, tightly, and his eyes went to the ceiling, body taught. Those words had been inside him for a long time, Castiel guessed, and finally he had been pushed over the edge. _This_ was something to work with.

Castiel said nothing for a while, only stared sympathetically while Dean regained his composure. Finally, he asked, “Why would you say that you’ve let anyone down?”

“I’ve never managed to do anything right, not a goddamn thing…Dad, Sam…I dropped out of high school and barely managed a GED. Now I’m thirty and some stupid drunk, good for nothing but telling rich people that they need to get their oil changed,” Dean said, tone going bitter as he went on.

“It seems to me,” Castiel said, “That the only person whom you’ve let down is yourself.”

And then, as changeable as fire, he was angry again, lashing out. “And I’m sure you’d know, Doc…Got your Ph. D. and a nice, respectable job. I bet your family is proud of you.” Castiel sighed lightly to himself. He’d made Dean get defensive again.

“We’re not here to talk about me, Dean.”

“But you and Sam both keep going on about how I’m supposed to _trust_ you and _open up_ to you, Doctor Novak. How am I supposed to do that when I hardly know a damn thing about you?” Dean asked.

A long pause while he considered, then, Castiel smiled a tiny bit. “You can start by calling me Castiel. I feel like I age ten years every time you call me _Doctor Novak_.” Dean returned his smile weakly, so Castiel pressed. “What would you like to know?” He ignored the fact that it wasn’t professional to discuss these sorts of matters with his client… there was no rule against it, and anything that would help him earn Dean’s trust seemed like a step forward to him.

“How about that name, _Castiel?_ It’s not exactly ‘Joe’ or ‘Mike.” Dean asked.

“That is…an interesting story, actually. My father is a religious scholar, as was my grandfather. I was named for Cassiel, the angel of Thursday, though my mother insisted on changing it to Castiel to sound less feminine. Most in my family have angelic names, with the exception of my twin, Jimmy, who was instead named for the disciple James. My mother chose his name.”

“Angel names, huh? Let me hear some.”

“Michael is my oldest uncle…then there is Rafael, Gabriel, and Lucifer, the youngest.”

“Lucifer. _Lucifer._ You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m afraid not,” Castiel said, hinting at a smile again. “Though he prefers to go by Luke.”

“Can’t say I blame the man. _Lucifer._ Geez. Did your grandparents _want_ him to get beaten up in school?”

Castiel shrugged. “I’m sure they weren’t thinking of it. According to myth, before he fell, Lucifer was the brightest of all the angels. The Morningstar.”

Dean pursed his lips, nodding thoughtfully, before shrugging. “Still don’t think it’s cool to name a kid after Satan, but, hey, whatever floats their boat. So. Religious family. You some sort of…nutjob?”

He paused, considering what he ought to say, before deciding on honesty. “I am not a man of faith, Dean. Not anymore.”

“You used to be, then?” He asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“War,” Castiel answered bleakly.

**_4_. _A wandering association_**

When Dean went into work a few weeks later morning, his mind was irritatingly fixed on Castiel, and the things he had learned about the man. At first he had thought the doctor to be the prissy, hand-wringing type, but he had certainly been proven wrong. In fact, against his will, he was beginning to _like_ the guy, even with the crazy focused staring and the robot face. It was more than a little weird, since it was Castiel’s job to ask him awkward and probing questions in order to “help him help himself.”

Or, that was the quote that Sam had used when he had gone and referred Dean to a counselor after he had flat-out refused to join one of those twelve-step programs. Castiel himself hadn’t used any lines quite that cheesy. He talked more like a walking encyclopedia, formal and reserved. He tried to imagine the doctor in a military uniform, holding a sniper rifle, and the image simply seemed so _wrong_ in his head that he had to smile a little bit. Guy looked like a tax accountant, not any kind of soldier.

Reluctantly, though, he was just glad that, if he _had_ to get his head shrunk, it wasn’t by some snobby intellectual who hadn’t seen the world outside of his ivy-covered university walls. And…maybe, _just_ maybe, some of the exercises they had gone over in the sessions were working, calming him down, quelling his shaking, when all he wanted was a drink. He hadn’t admitted that to Castiel. He still didn’t exactly trust the guy, even if he was willing to admit that he was…okay. Someone he might have been friends with, under different circumstances. He wasn’t planning on gushing about his feelings, or airing his family’s dirty laundry anytime soon, but maybe Castiel knew what he was talking about, at least so far as the how-to-stop-being-a-drunk-loser business went.

Of course, things weren’t perfect. He wouldn’t even say _improving,_ yet. But they were stepping vaguely in the direction of improvement. And besides, he was determined now, determined to make himself better, for Sam, and nothing on Earth could stop a determined Dean Winchester. This wouldn’t end badly, wouldn’t be another line on his miles-long list of failures.

 _If you feel yourself getting bogged down in the past, stop,_ Dean thought, swearing that he had heard it in Castiel’s voice, even if the man had never actually said that. He was starting to get under his skin… Either way, Dean considered it good advice, even if Castiel himself probably wouldn’t approve of the ‘bottling.’

He snapped out of his thoughts when he pulled the Impala into her customary parking spot and went into the garage through the back door. He suppressed a grimace at the wave of car-smells that assaulted him as soon as he stepped inside. It wasn’t that Dean hated his job, or that he didn’t like working on cars. He loved working with cars, actually, but this wasn’t what he saw himself doing for a living. Maybe a hobby—rebuilding old classics, returning abused and worn down junkers to their former glory. Instead, he was changing oil, replacing tires, and checking engines for people who had no clue how to work a car other than to drive it—and that was debatable.

Still, he had known his boss since he had been a kid, and working at Bobby’s really wasn’t a bad deal. And, anyway, who actually got to live their dream job?

He hung his leather jacket on a hook and pulled one of the floppy grey jumpsuits on over his clothes and grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge Bobby kept in the employee room—now conspicuously missing the half-empty six packs, Dean couldn’t help but notice with a scowl. That was all he needed. People _pandering_ to his _issues._ Frowning briefly, he chugged half the bottle and went to see what work Bobby had for him.

Hours later, Dean wiped his greasy hands on a slightly less-greasy towel and threw it to the side as he made his way over to where Bobby would be helping customers, outside. He was a little bit snappish, frustrated with the businessman who had _completely_ ignored the necessary maintenance on what could easily be a show-quality, _gorgeous_ ‘68 Camaro, with the excuse that he had thought that “all old cars did that.” A couple of beers would calm him down.

No. He shut down that line of thought before it could truly take root and turn into a need, a craving. Still, it was time for his lunch break, and he was thinking about stopping by that little diner over on 5th street. An adequate cheeseburger, tops, but the best damn pie in the state.

He found Bobby and a customer leaned over the hood of a Nissan sedan.

“Bobby, the transmission on that Camaro is shot to hell. We’re gonna have to order the part. Also, lunch,” He called.

“Okay, but—” he began, but the customer interrupted him.

“Dean?”

He blinked. “Castiel.” _This isn’t awkward at all._ He didn’t even look the same. The suit was still there, but the jacket was undone and the tie was loosely knotted. Also, the tan trench coat kind of made him look like a hobo. Or a flasher. Certainly not a put-together counselor.

After a moment of silence, Bobby asked Castiel, “I take it you know this idjit?” He gestured at Dean.

Dean answered for him, “Yeah. Castiel is my…doctor.”

“Your shrink, you mean?” Bobby corrected him gruffly, raising an eyebrow.

“Um. Yeah,” he admitted.

“Well, good. You take care of him, Doctor. God knows the he needs it,” Bobby commanded Castiel, who looked vaguely uncomfortable.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” he said, at length.

“Don’t _sir_ me,” Bobby grumbled, but went on, “It’s probably gonna take me an hour to check out your brakes, if you want to head back to the waiting room.”

“That will be fine. I have time.”

And, before Dean really knew what he was saying, he was offering, “Have you eaten? I was about to grab lunch.”

There was a long silence, during which Dean realized that it was both weird and probably inappropriate to invite your therapist to lunch. However, those thoughts quickly passed.

“I…haven’t eaten,” Castiel admitted, and Dean flashed him a wide smile.

“Awesome. Hang out here for just a second while I get back into normal clothes, okay?”

“Alright,” he acquiesced, but Dean was already on the way to the employee room. He shucked off the jumpsuit and retrieved his leather jacket, pausing to properly wash his hands with soap and water, though the smell of grease would probably stay, anyway.

Castiel was waiting by the door when Dean returned. “Follow me. My baby’s parked out back,” he said, gesturing. Castiel nodded, and trailed him out the back door and to the Impala.

“This is a very nice car,” he said, though Dean suspected that he was just being polite. Castiel didn’t seem like a car person.

“She’s a good girl. Classic. She was my dad’s before I got her,” he replied, slipping into the driver’s seat. After a moment, Castiel slid into the passenger, somewhat gingerly.

“How do you feel about pie?” Dean asked, pulling out of the space and guiding the car to the edge of the parking lot.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever had it,” Castiel admitted, and Dean gave him the most pitying, incredulous look he could muster.

“You’re, what, thirty-seven, and you’ve never had pie?” He asked, hoping that his ears had betrayed him.

“Thirty- _five_. And, no. Not that I can remember,” he answered, expression open with trepidation, and Dean had to turn and look at the road again, because, seriously, it was high time they got that man some damn _pie,_ and also, he really, _really,_ didn’t need to be noticing exactly how blue those wide eyes were.

“Well, that just won’t do, Cas,” Dean said with determination, and stepped on the gas to introduce Castiel to the finer things in life.

**_5_. _Pacing down the balance beam_**

Castiel would always remember that the first time he saw Dean Winchester outside of his counseling sessions was the first time that he saw the man behaving as he would with anyone else. No surly silences, no defensiveness. He was, in all honesty, a little surprised at how open and amiable Dean was proving to be. What was the difference? Could it be that this wasn’t work, but pleasure?

That thought had Castiel sinking awkwardly into the leather seat a bit. He knew that he shouldn’t have agreed to this, that he should have politely greeted Dean and then gone about his business. He _certainly_ shouldn’t be in his _client’s_ car, driving to an unknown destination for _pie._

 _Cas._ He hadn’t ever had a nickname. Not even when he had been in the army.

He had had clients who had gotten under his skin before, but he was nervous about this one. He was already finding it hard to say _no_ to him, and that was definitely not good. Not professional. Entirely inappropriate. He shouldn’t want to be friends with the man, not when it was just a job, his responsibility to help him fix the problems in his life. He was supposed to be a neutral third party, an unbiased confidante. Not…someone to invite out for drinks. He winced inwardly at his own analogy.

The thoughts quelled when Dean parked the car in front of a small diner sandwiched between a realtor’s office and an indie bookshop, and looked like something straight out of the fifties. He must have made a face, because Dean was reassuring him.

“I know, I know. It looks hokey, but I swear. Best damn pie in the state.”

“I will trust your judgment, then,” Castiel deferred, hesitantly following him into the diner, where they were promptly seated by a pretty waitress who knew Dean by name, and whose smile lingered just a little too long to be merely friendly.

“Your usual draft Shiner, Dean?” the waitress asked, already writing it down.

“Um, no. I…uh…Just…no,” he answered quickly, surprising her. “I’ll… Coffee. Black.”

“Okay, then… one black coffee. And for you?” She asked Castiel.

“I’ll have the same, please,” he requested calmly.

“Two black coffees it is. I’ll be right out with that,” she said before swishing off. He studied Dean, who was fixated on the surface of the dingy table, and suddenly a lot more like the withdrawn, angry man that Castiel saw in his office Tuesdays and Thursdays. He was puzzled. Castiel hadn’t been able to delve to the root of Dean’s problems, though his reticence was at least partly to blame. Healing that would be the first step toward a happier life. The exercises and thought experiments that he had been recommending to Dean thus far were just Band-Aids to put over the symptoms, while the disease raged on, untreated.

He needed to get to the heart of it. He _wanted_ to understand.

And it scared him, just a little bit.

But he’d get nowhere if he couldn’t get Dean talking.

“Pie,” he said, at length. “What do you recommend?”

Dean snapped up, reminding Castiel of his days as a soldier, and being called to attention.

“Well, that really depends,” he answered, striving for normality. “Are you a stick-to-the-classics kind of guy, or are you feeling adventurous?”

“Well, _that_ depends. What does being adventurous entail?” Castiel asked.

Dean considered, looking serious and thoughtful as he contemplated pie. “Well. This place has this killer strawberry daiquiri pie, which sounds crazy, but is actually awesome, and I swear contains no booze.” A pause. “Or, if you wanted to play it safe, apple pie is American as _fuck_ and always a good place to start.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Then I think I’ll go with the apple. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Dean replied, flashing him a grin in return, once again all friendly charm, just as the waitress arrived with their coffees. They took a few moments, Dean sipping quietly on the coffee while Castiel stirred a packet of sugar into his.

“So, now that I’m not paying you to talk about my problems, you want to tell me any more bizarre stories about your life?” Dean asked Castiel, who paused, thinking. He took a swig of his coffee.

“I suppose I do have a few…”

And that was how he ended up in a diner on his day off, talking to his client about _his_ life while eating pie. Of course, he left out the nasty bits, like how war had affected him in more ways than his loss of faith, the months in which he had been so high that he could only remember a few hazy details. When Dean had asked him why he got into his field, he had shrugged and said that he found the human mind fascinating, and that he wanted to help people. He didn’t mention that it wasn’t what he really wanted to do, but was a form of self-punishment. He certainly didn’t mention the time he’d spent coming down, rejoining the lands of the living. And he definitely, _definitely_ didn’t mention the event which had pushed him into sobriety.

Even with as unusual a client as Dean Winchester, there were some lines a doctor couldn’t cross.

**_6_. _Murmurs in the dark confessional_**

When Dean walked into his office on a Tuesday, several weeks after having lunch with the man, Castiel could see that something was different. The hostility had more or less dropped completely since then, and he hadn’t exactly been open, but his defensiveness didn’t seem rooted in anger anymore, but something else…maybe shame? Their eyes met for a moment, and Castiel nodded, Dean closing the door behind him and settling into a chair.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, folding his hands under his chin and leaning forward.

“Hey, Cas,” he said distractedly. Then, “I, uh. I think I’m ready to talk.”

He smiled, just a little. “I’m ready when you are. Take your time.”

Dean swallowed and looked down, holding the silence, letting it build, like black thunderheads roiling in the moments before a storm. Then, the clouds broke, and words, like rain, began to fall.

“You know how I said my mom died in a fire when I was little? Well, it wasn’t an accident. It was this…serial arsonist. Had been stalking Mom and some other women for years. After she died, Dad kind of lost it…went all vigilante justice since he didn’t think the police were doing enough to catch the guy…” He paused, then went on, stumbling occasionally, telling the story all out of order, but what Castiel was able to piece together shook him. Dean really had all but raised his brother, putting everything before himself. The way their father had moved them around the country, living out of the Impala and one dingy motel room after another, paying for food by gambling, hustling pool… Switching schools every few weeks. In all honesty, Castiel was surprised that Dean was as well-adjusted as he was, which was saying quite a bit.

But then the story got worse.

“And then, when Sammy was about to get his pre-law degree, Dad went missing… I panicked, and showed up in Palo Alto because I couldn’t think of anything else to do…We left in the middle of the night…Never found Dad, but when I took Sammy back to his apartment, the whole damn building was on fire…and Jess didn’t make it out…She’s…well, she _was_ Sam’s girlfriend. And she would have made it, if I hadn’t been so _selfish._ ” He stopped then, for a long moment, taking deep, rapid breaths. “And then, a year later…”

It was nigh-incoherent, but Dean was able to stammer out the story of how he and his father had been in a car accident, how John Winchester had thrown himself into the passenger seat and over his son, taking the brunt of the blow. He hadn’t survived. And Dean was convinced that _that,_ like Jessica, like everything that had happened in his childhood was his fault. He was carrying enough regret to drown in, and was only just staying afloat. The fake smiles, hiding a world of guilt. The drinking was self-medication. Not of the healthy variety, certainly, but Castiel, more than most, could understand _why._

When he had finally finished, their hour had been over for a while, but Castiel was in no rush to kick Dean out.

“Dean,” he said, at length, “You do know that _none_ of that was your fault, right?” He stared imploringly, wanting to reach out and somehow take away the hurt he saw in the other man’s face. And _he_ wanted to be the one to drag Dean out of his self-created Hell, not the one to facilitate his ability to help himself. And that was bad, and not professional at _all,_ and he knew that he should get out _now_ and refer Dean to someone else, but when those eyes filled, expression heartbreakingly open for a fraction of an instant, Castiel couldn’t bring himself to care.

“You just heard me spill my freakin’ life story…Cas, how can you _say that?_ ” His voice was thick, eyes cast to the side and down, focused on the ground, blinking rapidly.

And, boundaries be damned. He reached across his desk then, covering Dean’s hands where they were folded together, resting. “It’s because I _listened_ that I can say that, Dean. You’re a good man, and strong, but you can’t put all the world’s problems onto your shoulders and not expect to break under the pressure.”

His face was still downcast, and Castiel couldn’t make out much of an expression. So, Dean didn’t believe him. He hadn’t expected any sort of a great change of heart immediately. That was okay. They had time. All the time he needed.

After a long while, Castiel removed his hand, opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out one of his business cards, flipping it over and scribbling on the back. He pressed the paper into Dean’s hand, now open.

“I don’t usually do this, but that’s my personal number. If you ever need to reach me for _whatever_ reason, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Even at four in the morning?” Dean asked with a watery smile, pocketing the card.

“ _Especially_ at four in the morning,” Castiel assured him gravely.

“Don’t make that promise unless you can keep it,” he warned, and the smile this time seemed a little more solid.

Castiel found himself answering it. “I promise you. I can.”

They made their goodbyes and Dean shuffled out of the office. The remains of the grin slid off of Castiel’s face as soon as the door clicked. What was he doing? Then, he steeled himself. Dean Winchester was worth it.

**_7_. _Chasing down an anodyne_**

Dean hadn’t told Castiel everything. He had certainly told him quite a _lot,_ and way more than he usually dumped on people he’d known for a month, give or take a few days. He was…easy to talk to, though, just sitting there with his chin on his hands, nonjudgmental, head tilted to the side like he was really, honestly listening. Like he cared.

He wasn’t sure if it was the shrink training, or if it was just _Cas,_ but he was beginning to suspect the second one.

Still, he had kept a couple of things to himself. Like how he and Dad had been fighting the night that the semi had hit them… Or how Dad had been drinking. John hadn’t been a happy drunk, and Dean was _terrified_ of ending up just like his father, for all that he had hero-worshipped the man in his youthful ignorance.

He also didn’t mention how he had spend most of his adult life wondering—or, more accurately, trying _not_ to wonder—what being with a man would be like. He had always played it off as an idle curiosity in his own mind, and had never acted on it. Besides, he liked women. He liked women a _hell_ of a lot. Even if he wasn’t much for real relationships, he had never had any trouble picking up chicks at bars, clubs, or, once, memorably, in a library. And _that_ was to name only a few.

Point being, Dean Winchester did not _crush._ And he certainly didn’t crush on men, no matter how ridiculously blue their eyes were, or how their hair may or may not always be tousled, perfect for grabbing, or how their voice could get so low, just rough enough that it set off all sorts of fantasies about what it may sound like as he—Dean shook his head, clearing the thoughts. Because he was _certainly_ not crushing on his counselor. There had to be laws against that sort of shit, right? Not that _that_ meant much to Dean, but still, it was one of those unwritten rules. You don’t fuck your teachers (until after graduation, at least) and you don’t fuck your shrink.

Nevertheless…he settled down on the couch with his laptop and opened the browser. Idly he reached over to the side table for a beer that wasn’t there, and curled his hand into a fist to fight the gnawing ache. He’d already slipped up more than once, and after coming so close to dying of alcohol poisoning, he couldn’t deny that he actually _did_ want to make himself less of a fuck-up. Not for his own sake, no, he had given up faith in himself long ago. But for Sam. Sam deserved better than to have a shitty alcoholic older brother.

After a moment of gathering his resolve, he turned on the private browsing—or, as he thought of it, Porn Mode—and tabbed over to Google.

 _‘Relationship +therapist +illegal’_ he typed into the search box, and hit enter. The list of links and their corresponding blurbs were anything but promising…At random, he opened one of the articles, wincing a bit and stopping himself from reaching for the nonexistent drink as he read through it.

Not only was it illegal to be in a relationship, it was _very_ illegal. Not to mention against the code of ethics, _and_ broke more moral rules than a nun getting an abortion. It was even frowned upon for a therapist and a client to become ‘involved’ _years_ after said client stopped going to the sessions.

All in all, he thought with a grimace, it seemed like something that should never happen. Besides, he didn’t even know if Cas was into men. And, of course, the guy was way too professional to ever do something like let himself become interested in one of his clients. He was kind of counting his chickens before they hatched. Except that he knew the eggs were unfertilized and wouldn’t hatch anyway, and this was turning out to be a shit metaphor. Dean really wanted a drink. He had half a bottle of Jack stashed away in the one place that Sam hadn’t found when he had fucking gone through every nook and cranny of Dean’s apartment.

And he was halfway off the couch to go get it when he got an image of Castiel’s face blue eyes wide with disappointment. Suddenly angry, he got up anyway, stalking into his bedroom and retrieving the bottle from the air vent. With a tight-fisted grip around the neck of the bottle, he took it to the kitchen, unscrewed the lid, and poured the amber liquid down the sink.

Almost immediately, some part of him regretted it… He really, really missed the way a few drinks had been able to dull the edges, make it all less sharp. He never, ever forgot, but sometimes the drinks would make remembering hurt less.

_If you ever need to reach me for whatever reason, don’t hesitate to call._

The card was still in the pocket of his leather jacket, which he had thrown haphazardly onto the couch. Absurdly shaky, he retrieved it, staring at the bold black numbers for a long while. He fumbled for his own cell phone and typed the digits in, where they stared back at him, bold and accusing. He had one shaky moment, that didn’t mean he was going to turn into a _complete_ girl and whine to his therapist at…he checked the clock…five minutes to midnight. He was probably asleep…and seriously, Dean could handle his own damn problems. So, maybe Castiel helped. A lot. But he had taken care of himself since he was four years old, and Sam, too, and, well, at least one of them had turned out okay.

He didn’t dial. He just programmed the number into his phone instead. Then, he locked the screen and went back into the kitchen to pop a couple of Nyquil. It was going to be a _long_ night, and Dean couldn’t help but feel that sleep wasn’t going to come easily.

**_8_. _It rides along the road, ephemeral_**

Weeks passed, and Dean didn’t call. God _damn_ it, he wanted to, sometimes, but something always kept him from hitting the button. He wasn’t sure if it was pride, or that he was chickenshit, or maybe a little of both.

And maybe he’d slipped up once or twice. A shot or two, not enough to really get drunk, but he still felt guilty as hell afterwards. He slumped down in the driver’s seat of the Impala, vaguely miserable about life. He’d thought that it would start getting easier, the not drinking. It wasn’t. And sometimes talking to Cas actually made it worse…dredging up memories he’d tried to bury, trying to sort through them…every single thing he’d ever fucked up in his long history of fucking things up, right there on the surface of his mind, like filthy oil floating on water, the waves building, crashing against him until he shattered, got sucked down, drowning…

But then Cas would say something so…exactly what he needed, and it was like being gripped tight and dragged back into the light. Those blue eyes would meet his, with such unwavering, rock-solid faith that he could change, could accomplish anything, and, for a moment, Dean would believe it too. Would feel like he deserved to be saved, just for that moment.

Naturally, the first time he really, truly fell for someone, it would be the one person that it would be completely _wrong_ for him to have. He couldn’t even do _this_ right.

He pulled his car into the parking lot of the now-familiar medical complex housing the building where Cas worked, and turned into his accustomed spot. As he got out of the car he idly wondered how much longer he’d be in counseling…he’d been going to his sessions twice a week for two and a half months, now, and as much as he’d like to be pronounced cured and allowed to go on his merry way, he couldn’t deny that the thought of never seeing Cas again made his stomach clench.

He wandered into the building on autopilot, conjuring up a smile for the pretty receptionist while he signed himself in. He knew for a fact that Cas used the hour before Dean’s appointments to catch up on paperwork, so he usually just walked into the office instead of waiting to be called in. As such, he was surprised to find the door open and a large dark-skinned man looming over Castiel’s desk.

They both heard him approach, and the man turned to look at Dean darkly for a moment. He swiveled back to Cas and Dean could make out a harsh, “I’ll let you go on with it, but don’t forget that I warned you.”

Then the man brushed past Dean and disappeared around a corner.

“So, what was up with Prince Charming, there?” he asked, stepping into the small room and closing the door.

Castiel sighed and slumped back in his chair. “That was Uriel. He works here, also.”

“And his problem was…?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “You, actually. He thinks I’m too close to you.”

A surging mixture of panic, apprehension, and a touch of hope rose in Dean. “Oh yeah? Why would he say that?”

“Because he’s an assbutt, mainly,” Castiel said flatly, startling Dean into a laugh. “And because he doesn’t believe in _speaking_ to his clients beyond the perfunctory questions he has to ask.”

“Hold up—Assbutt?” For some reason, the only word to describe that particular choice of expletive that Dean’s mind could come up with was _adorable._ God damn it. Might as well turn in his dick license now.

Cas blushed and looked down. “An insult I invented for my uncle, Michael, because ‘ass’ wasn’t quite strong enough. Also, I was twelve.”

Dean laughed again and let the subject drop, finally taking a seat in one of the chairs. “That may be the case, but, anyway, are you really supposed to talk about your coworkers like that to a client? _Or_ your uncle?” He was smiling, it was meant as a joke, but the look on Castiel’s face was serious, considering, before he smiled in return.

“Well, admittedly, I _don’t_ go have pie with all of my clients.”

Dean chuckled lightly, and looked down.

Castiel straightened the papers on his desk and then ruined it by shoving them haphazardly into one of the drawers to be dealt with later.

“So, Dean,” he began, “I was thinking about you last night.”

“Taking your work home with you?” Dean replied, and Castiel couldn’t be sure if he was trying to avoid a subject or not. His sense of humor was as much a defense mechanism as anything else, but, then again, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Not to mention that the subtext of that conversation was venturing dangerously close to waters that Castiel refused to lend even a spare thought to, even when he was at home, alone in his bed, in the dark, with no one to judge him but himself.

“There was nothing interesting on TV,” he brushed it off, and went on, “The point being, I think that part of your problem is that you too often dwell on the past, Dean. It is…a bit like constantly picking at a wound. It won’t heal if you do that.”

Dean didn’t look convinced. “Are you suggesting I take yoga and meditate on the future or something?”

“Maybe something a little more practical. Tell me, are you happy with your life?” Castiel asked, tilting his head to the side and leaning forward to rest his chin on his knuckles.

Dean blinked, and pursed his lips for just a second. “It’s not what I _wanted,_ but it doesn’t suck too bad, I guess.”

“What would you say is your ideal career?”

Another moment of consideration, followed by a smirk. “Well, when I was a kid I wanted to be a monster truck. Then I wanted to be a monster truck driver. But when I got older I started to think about doing something that would really help people, you know?” He sobered, the grin fading. “I looked into what it took to become a doctor, but there was no way I could possibly do that. And, I’m more of an adrenaline rush type, anyway…so, I guess if I could pick anything realistic, I’d go with paramedic. Saving people…doing something right.”

“And you haven’t considered going back to school to get your license?” Castiel asked.

Dean laughed bitterly. “I didn’t get my GED until I was twenty-one. I’m not smart like you and Sam. I’m a _dropout._ School? Not my thing.”

“Dean, you’re far from unintelligent. I could see that the first time I met you.” He wanted to press, to point out that maybe the reason he had had so much trouble the first time around was because of John Winchester’s half-baked revenge scheme, or making sure that Sam had everything he needed, no matter _what_ Dean had to do to get it for him, or switching schools constantly. He didn’t think that Dean would appreciate his bringing that up, though, so he refrained, even as he burned for the injustice this man had faced. He _should_ have had a stable home with loving parents, a chance to play Little League baseball, the opportunity to go to college and live his dreams. Instead, he had given up _everything_ for his family. And he was punishing _himself_ for it.

But Dean only smiled brokenly, not believing a word of it.

“I’m serious, Dean. Unintelligent people don’t own the complete works of Kurt Vonnegut. And they certainly haven’t read the books multiple times, much less actually understood them.”

“So I can get inside the mind of a bitter dead guy; that doesn’t make me the next Einstein,” Dean replied after a moment, and Castiel was glad just to get him talking again.

“If you insist,” he deferred. “Either way, if you don’t want to go back to school, there are a few less drastic things you could do that I believe might make a difference.”

“What’s that?”

“Anything to get a fresh look at your life. Rearrange the furniture in your apartment. Get a haircut. Drive to your job by a new route. Take up a hobby,” he suggested.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “How exactly is this supposed to help with my assortment of issues?”

Castiel smiled before he could stop himself. “Like I said a moment ago, you focus on the past, and that isn’t helping you. If you can learn to focus on the present, and see what is, rather than what was, you can make your life into something that you like waking up to every morning.” And Castiel inwardly grimaced, because he was a complete hypocrite, telling Dean to do the things that he couldn’t manage to do for himself.

They spent the rest of the hour talking about ideas for Dean, and his stomach kept sinking, because Castiel’s mind kept focusing on what he’d desperately, desperately tried to avoid acknowledging: he and Dean were too much alike for him to remain professional. For him to keep his distance.

Castiel’s mother, too, had died when he was young, and his father was distant and withdrawn. He didn’t have the sort of close sibling relationship with Anna or Jimmy that Dean had managed with Sam, but he understood all too well the need to change himself, to deny what you want for the will of his family. He had never wanted to enlist, but he had always felt that his father was never proud of his bookish younger son, especially compared to his more outgoing twin. And so, he had gone to war. His father and several of his uncles had been soldiers before him. He just wanted his father to notice him, to let him know that he meant something.

Before the war, he had always thought that Sartre was correct when he had written that “hell is other people.”

After, he had changed his mind. Hell was war. Still, he had carried out his orders like a good little soldier, serving his four years, but, pride be damned, when he got the opportunity to get out, he took it. His father spoke to him then, to condemn him as a coward.

The nightmares never stopped. So the drugs started. It was a slow, masochistic suicide.

Too slow, because if his uncle Gabriel hadn’t decided to drop in for a visit the night he decided to down the whole bottle of painkillers, Castiel wouldn’t have been around, a decade later.

He wouldn’t be around, empathizing far too easily with Dean Winchester. He wouldn’t be around to realize that Dean was everything he wanted. Even if Dean wasn’t seeing both sides of the story, Castiel was, and he saw that they fit, the same, yet complementary. Because common experiences aside, his father was right: Castiel was a coward. But Dean was a hero.

He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. Uriel was right. This was beyond unprofessional. He was lost.

Castiel had known for a long while that he wasn’t necessarily attracted to men, or to women, but rather, to specific people. Always, it was something about their personality, as if their soul shone brighter than the others, and after that it became obsession. Physical, emotional. He never fell fast, but he always fell hard. And he was there, on the edge of this precipice, reeling with vertigo. And it was wrong. So, so wrong.

But that didn’t mean that he was going to let it go.

**_9\. The coiling wires, the shots collected_ **

The nightmare came, as so many did, right in the middle of another dream. It had been peaceful, standing on a beach that felt like the edge of the world, looking out across the wide, blue ocean. The wind was gentle, the sun mild. He could have been the last man on Earth, but he didn’t feel alone.

Then, it changed, and the shots began to ring out. In a second, the waves were gone, and it was everywhere stinging sand and blistering sun, peppered with blast holes. And somehow he was still drowning in it, sinking into the sand as he tried to get away, bullets whipping past him left and right. But the worst was the booming, omniscient voice of God, calling down from an unforgiving sky, telling him of his failures. It sounded remarkably like his father.

Then, the beeping of a bomb began, and he cringed, bracing himself for the inevitable explosion—

And abruptly snapped awake. It wasn’t a bomb, but the shrill piping of his cell phone. He fumbled for it on the nightstand, and managed to flip it open just before it went to voicemail.

“H’lo?” he said, blinking the sleep from his eyes as his heart rate returned to normal.

“Cas?” A voice asked, rougher than usual, but still one he’d know anywhere.

“Dean,” he replied, more clearly. He sat up and turned the bedside lamp on.

“Shit, I woke you up. Fuck—I’m calling at one in the morning like a complete…”

“Dean, what’s wrong?”

“I…today’s the day dad died.” There was a moment of harsh breathing into the receiver. “I…tried doing what you said, taking my mind off it if I can’t work through it and all, but it didn’t work, and I don’t want to be alone and I didn’t know who else to call…”

“Where are you?” Castiel was asking, on his feet before he knew what he was doing.

“Home,” he answered.

“The address?” Castiel went on, pulling a pair of jeans and a tee shirt out of his dresser, holding the phone in the crook of his neck.

“Uhh…” Dean began questioningly, but then gave him the location. It wasn’t far.

“Good. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Okay…uhh…bye,” Dean said, puzzled, before hanging up. Castiel quickly donned the clothes and went to find his keys. He wasn’t an impulsive man, but he remembered all too well the night he had tried to end it all. He couldn’t get his mind out of the past, either, and he’d decided it would be easier to simply never have to remember again.

He didn’t want Dean to make the same mistake. Wouldn’t _let_ him.

He was halfway to his car when he turned back to put on shoes. The delay made him question his actions. No, he really shouldn’t be going to pick up his client in the middle of the night, but Castiel was already damned, as far as he was concerned. It was worth it to cement his place in hell, as long as Dean Winchester was saved.

On the way to the apartment, he couldn’t help but wonder why it had been Dean’s first instinct to call him, instead of Sam.

He didn’t have much time to contemplate that, though, because he found Dean’s complex and pulled into the parking lot. He was waiting outside in track pants and a hoodie, leaning against the Impala. Castiel pulled up alongside it and Dean wordlessly got into the passenger seat of his Nissan.

They rode along for a few minutes in silence, the night holding a brittle quality. Finally, Dean broke it.

“I…Thanks for doing this, man. When I called you, I didn’t mean for you to come get me, I just…wanted to hear another voice, you know? But, this is even better, and…” He stopped, looking uncomfortably out the window.

There, in the dark, occasional streetlights providing intermittent flashes of illumination, it felt safe, and like it was finally time for the truth. “I understand what you’re going though, Dean. I…sympathize with your case more than anyone else I’ve talked to.”

“What do you mean? Is this some therapist ‘I understand your pain’ shit?” he asked lowly, sounding just a touch betrayed.

“That’s not what I mean. I actually know what it’s like to be in your situation.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was a junkie, Dean. For a while, after the war—anything to help me forget.”

There was a long, tense quiet. Then, a pained chuckle. “That…uh, that sounds familiar.”

Castiel didn’t laugh. “Yes,” he agreed.

Another pause. “So, where are we going?”

He blinked. He’d been aimlessly driving, hadn’t planned anything out past ‘Get Dean. Make sure Dean is okay.’

“Can you direct me to a 24-hour diner? As your doctor, I’m prescribing pie.”

The humor wasn’t lost on Dean, and he smiled, relaxing. “Cas, you are the _best_ doctor ever, then.”

He followed Dean’s directions to a building that looked like a Denny’s converted into a baseball-themed diner. Deciding to trust Dean’s judgment on the place, he parked the car and got out, the other man following close behind. The tired-looking hostess directed them to take a seat wherever they liked, and by mutual agreement they selected a booth in the corner farthest from the door.

After a few moments spent looking over the dessert menu, Castiel asked softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Dean smiled weakly. “Not really. Now that we’re here, it all seems really lame.” He paused and looked at the eye-searing orange tabletop. “But I guess it’s really you. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I deserve to be saved.”

“I…It’s my job,” Castiel replied automatically, still hopelessly trying to salvage some professionalism in their relationship.

“You’ve done way more for me than you’ve had to, Cas…I barely pay you anything, but you’re here in the middle of the night.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t have a clue how to respond.

Luckily, the waitress—Marge, according to her nametag—saved him, swooping in with her notepad in hand. “What can I get you boys?” She asked perfunctorily.

“Black coffee and blueberry pie,” Dean said, flashing her a brilliant grin, even though she was old enough to be his mother.

“I’ll have water and wheat toast,” Castiel requested with more reserve.

Marge nodded and took their orders back to the kitchen, and Dean turned to give Cas a disgusted look. “Water and toast? What’s next, _salad?”_ He said the word the way that most people would say ‘genocide.’ “You’re as bad as Sammy…health nut.”

Castiel shrugged, not taking his eyes off of Dean. He was grateful for the change of subject. “I work a sedentary job…not much opportunity to exercise.”

A pause. “Also, Anna sent me a batch of cookies, and I might have…eaten them all.”

Dean smiled. “That’s more like it. I knew I liked you for a reason.”

There was an awkward moment then in which neither of them spoke, and Castiel was the one to study the orange linoleum. He was afraid to meet Dean’s eyes, because he knew that if he did, he might not be able to look away again. Damn him, but he was lost.

Finally, Dean said something casual, completely unrelated, and it was enough to ease the tension and spark a conversation that lasted well past coffee and pie. Dean was energetic and lovely to Castiel’s solemnly composed, but the dynamic worked, and he desperately tried to ignore the fact that they were talking more like old friends than a doctor and a client.

But then again, he’d rather thrown any attempts at professionalism by the wayside at that point, already.

It couldn’t have been more than two hours to sunrise when Castiel sneakily paid the bill while Dean was in the bathroom. He left a generous tip for Marge, then met Dean at the door.

“The bill?” he asked.

“I already took care of it,” Castiel assured him, making Dean frown.

“Man, what did you do that for? I’m the one dragging you out of bed at ungodly hours.”

“I’m…happy to help,” he answered awkwardly, looking down. Dean let the subject drop and they went back to the car.

Castiel drove Dean back in silence, only speaking when he turned into the parking lot.

“And you’ll be alright for the rest of the night?”

“I. Uh. I think I’ll live.” He glanced at the dash clock. “Fuck. Besides, I have to be at work in all of three and a half hours.”

“Then I won’t keep you any longer,” Castiel said, pulling to a stop near where the Impala was parked. Dean nodded and opened the door, but Castiel stopped him.

“Wait, Dean. There is one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

He hesitated, suddenly unsure of what to say without saying too much, or not enough. “I’m glad you called, rather than suffering alone.”

Dean smiled then, beautifully backlit by the streetlight, quicksilver around the edges. He wanted to move, to touch him. But he moved, and the illusion shattered.

“Thank you.” A hesitation, and Dean looked down quickly. “This is really weird and most likely a total breach of ethics or whatever, but you’re probably the best friend I’ve ever had.”

Their eyes met in the darkness for what felt like an eternity, and Castiel’s throat forgot how to work, his voice lost in the held silence. And then Dean was opening the door, all but fleeing the car, leaving Castiel both disappointed and relieved that he hadn’t had to reply to that. It was probably a good thing, though. He didn’t have the slightest idea how to respond, that hadn’t involved dragging the man forward into a kiss. He flushed, embarrassed.

He was dreadfully certain of one thing, though. Friendship wasn’t all he wanted from Dean. He had teetered off the edge of that cliff, and the wind was ripping at him, tearing him apart, exposing him. It was terrifying, it was exhilarating.

It was the first time he’d really wanted to be with another person in eight years.

And of course, he would be the one person he could never have.

**_10\. No rush of light, no sign of belonging_ **

“Congratulations, Dean.” Castiel said as Dean opened the door to his office.

“What? Why?”

“You’ve been sober for three months, today.”

“Oh,” he said, taking his customary chair. “Um, that’s cool, I guess.”

Castiel nodded seriously. “It’s excellent progress. Especially since you’ve been coping largely on your own.”

Dean still wasn’t sure what Castiel was getting at. “Yeah, that twelve-step shit isn’t for me. I don’t do that sharing and caring crap with strangers.”

The smile that touched Castiel’s face then was so miniscule that Dean would have missed it had he blinked. Right. Cas _had_ been a complete stranger when Dean had started seeing him. He thought of how standoffish he’d been four months ago and cringed inwardly.

“Be that as it may,” Castiel said, snapping him out of his thoughts, “It is a milestone, and I think it would be acceptable for you to cut down to one session a week, at this point.”

Dean had to fight hard to keep his dismay from showing on his face. He’d never, _never_ carried a torch for anyone like he was for Cas, but he didn’t delude himself into thinking that the man would want anything to do with him once he was all cured and sober. He didn’t want to lose him, but he couldn’t think of anything to do other than start drinking again, and he wasn’t going to do that. Not again.

But he must have shown something, or Cas really could read his mind (a terrifying idea) the way that soul-searching stare suggested he could.

“This is a good thing, Dean. You will have more time for your job, and, of course, I am always on call if you need me between Tuesdays.”

He relaxed. Without saying it, Castiel had managed to tell him that he wasn’t being cut out of his life, that this really was meant as a…reward, or something. Something positive, at least. Dean wasn’t sure Cas had a malicious bone in his body. Severe, yes. Blunt, almost painfully so. Honest, _very_ painfully so. But he didn’t say things for the purpose of hurting anyone.

“Alright. I guess that is a good thing. Bobby has been complaining about me having to take off early twice a week.” He was exaggerating. Bobby had made some gruff comment about it, but when Dean tried to apologize, he had cut him off, called him an idjit, and told him to take all the time he needed so he didn’t become a mean old drunk like his father.

Ouch. Right in the festering wound. Right where he had needed it, too. Working through his life with Cas, Dean was starting to realize how many of his problems were rooted in his relationship with his dad. And then he had gotten _angry._ Angry at the childhood he had been denied. It had been quickly followed by guilt, thinking of his dad that way, when his dad had died to make sure that he would survive that wreck. But after _that,_ he had realized that just about everything had been because of his crazy revenge plot, and the anger had returned. And the anger felt _good._ And _that_ brought on the guilt.

It was a complex, fucked-up mess. But he was sorting through it with Cas. It was like…his issues were a big tangled up ball of yarn, but Cas knew _exactly_ which string to pull and make the whole damn thing unravel. Dean didn’t know what he’d do without him, at this point. Shit made sense when Cas was around.

He was in deep, and he knew it. It wasn’t enough for the guy to be _sinfully_ gorgeous, but he also had to be smart and understanding and he really _got_ Dean and didn’t belittle him or make him feel stupid, or…

“…Dean. Dean? Are you there?” Castiel was saying, and he realized that he’d gotten lost in his own thoughts.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Distracted.”

“This is rather sudden. I apologize,” Castiel said, and damn it but he actually looked sincere. Dean had always thought shrinks were money-mongering dicks, but he guessed Cas was just the exception to that rule.

“Nah, I mean, like you said, it’s good. Progress and all,” he dissembled with a shrug.

Castiel, as usual, saw straight through him. “You know that this doesn’t mean that everything is perfect now, right?”

He grimaced. “Yeah, I know. It’s still…an everyday thing.”

“I understand,” he said with a slow nod, and it didn’t ring hollow to Dean. Cas really _did_ understand.

“Will it ever go away, Cas?” he asked quietly, hesitantly meeting that constant blue stare.

He considered for a long moment before answering. “No, Dean. I’m afraid it won’t…addiction can be a lifelong thing, and I believe that you’re genetically predisposed to alcoholism to begin with. But there are ways of managing it.”

“Like what?”

He sighed, eyes shifting. “I’m supposed to tell you that you should live a happy, sober life for your own sake, but in reality, I don’t know if that works the way the pamphlet writers say it does.”

Dean blinked, surprised by that answer. But he had a feeling that he knew why. “How do you do it?” he asked.

“I found something to live for.” And that _did_ ring hollow.

“And it’s talking people out of the same situation you were in? Isn’t that a little morbid and self-punishing, Cas?” Dean asked before he could really think about the words, and he cringed a bit as soon as they left his mouth.

But by the way Castiel flinched and looked away guiltily, he had hit the nail right on the head.

“What is it you really want to do?” was the next unthinking thing out of his mouth.

It was a while before Castiel answered. “I…ever since I was young, I wanted to be a research professor.”

“And yet you’re a shrink.”

“Counselor.”

“Nuance. Anyway, why? You’d be a great prof, why not go for it?”

Castiel shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “This is a good job…I am able to help people who truly need it.”

And yeah, Dean couldn’t really argue there. Cas had been paramount in getting him out of his own shitty situation. But still… “But you’re not happy.”

“And who really is?” Castiel said quickly, harshly. He paused to breathe, and continued more softly. “It’s enough. Dean…please, can we talk about something else?”

Dean actually kind of really wanted to press the issue, but he had a feeling that Cas would just shut down if he did, so he let it go, letting the conversation be guided into therapy-friendly waters for the rest of the hour. When it was over he experienced the now-familiar sensation of mixed relief and disappointment. Relief because he was done talking about his feelings, which, even after months of therapy, he didn’t have a taste for. And disappointment to be saying goodbye to Cas again. He hadn’t called him outside of work since that night, something which neither of them discussed after the fact. Dean had thought about it, but…the dude was busy. He had other clients, and better things to do other than wait on Dean and cater to his issues.

Distracted by such thoughts, he was halfway home before he remembered that he was supposed to meet Sam for dinner at some fancy place that served that organic shit he was into.

With a sigh of exasperation, he turned into a parking lot to go the other direction, and glumly prepared himself to endure his yearly salad. Or hummus. Or something equally healthy and offensive. He deserved it for letting Sam pick where they’d be eating. Then again, he _was_ getting pretty sick of the bitchface number forty-seven, the look that Sam gave him whenever he suggested a burger joint or diner. Tonight he would instead receive bitchface number fifty-three, the look that said “don’t complain, you jerk, you’re making a scene.” Or something to that effect.

He pulled into the parking lot and, fuck it if he couldn’t even pronounce the name of the damn place. Still, he tried to look on the bright side: he hadn’t seen Sammy in a while, with the lawyer shit and all. He parked the Impala next to Sam’s Mustang, and grudgingly walked in to meet his brother.

He found Sam and the meal started off awkwardly when the waiter offered them both samples of the house wine, which made Sam clam up, but Dean laughed, and told the guy that he hadn’t been a wino even when he _had_ been a drinker.

That made Sam laugh too, and got them talking about easier things for a while. Sam told him about the weird new intern at his law firm, Becky, and how she was a sweet girl but her really obvious crush on him was making him uncomfortable. Dean, in turn, told Sam about some of the shenanigans that had gone on at the garage.

When the food arrived though, they moved on to more serious topics.

“Have you heard from Ellen or Jo recently?” Dean asked over his disgustingly green plate. The Harvelle women were old, old friends and Ellen’s bar had once been Dean’s favorite haunt.

“Yeah, and Ellen actually gave me a message for you. I may be paraphrasing but, it went something like, ‘just because you’re unofficially barred from The Roadhouse doesn’t mean you can’t pick up a phone and let me know how you’re doing every now and then.’” Dean smiled at Sam’s half-decent imitation of Ellen’s voice even as he shifted awkwardly. He really _should_ have called instead of getting wrapped up in his own problems.

“So…how are things going?” Sam asked tentatively. Back when Dean had been living with Sam to ensure that he stayed sober, any mention of the drinking problem had been met with intense hostility.

But Dean had looked a lot of things over since then. “They’re going pretty well. Cas said that I don’t have to see him as often anymore…”

“That’s good, Dean. Really good.” The relief in his voice was apparent, and Dean felt a little guilty for having made his brother worry about him like that. _He_ was supposed to be the one looking after Sammy, not the other way around.

“Yeah…three months sober today,” he announced with a smile, raising his water glass in a mock toast.

They turned to their food for a few minutes, and Dean mostly ate the chicken and croutons out of his Caesar salad. Sam’s voice was actually a welcome distraction when it came.

“So, the counseling is working. I mean, you’re actually talking to Doctor Novak?”

He swallowed the lettuce in his mouth, managing not to make a face, and washed it down with a swig of water before answering. “I. Well, yeah. Cas is a good guy. He actually really cares and all. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Cas?” Sam asked with a smirk.

Dean flushed, and hoped the restaurant’s atmospheric (see: pretentious) half-light kept his brother from noticing. He dissembled. “Yeah, well, he asked me not to call him Doctor Novak, and, well, _Castiel_ is kind of a mouthful.”

“Sure,” he agreed conspiratorially, “But seriously. I’m glad you’re not keeping everything to yourself anymore.”

“Yeah,” Dean said somberly into his salad. “I’m not sure what I’d do without him, now.”

And suddenly he could _hear_ the gears turning in Sam’s head as he mulled those words over, extracted deeper meaning from them in that lawyer-esque way of his. His voice was serious. “Wait, you _actually_ like him? Like, _like_ him like him?”

“Wait, what?” Dean said, trying to look cool and dismissive, and not like he was on the verge of panic. “Dude, I’m not gay.”

“Bi, whatever, Dean. You may remember that we spent each other’s pubescent years stuck in a car together. I’ve seen you check guys out. I’m not stupid,” Sam said, giving Dean bitchface number twenty-two.

“Yeah, yeah, shut up college boy. You’re still talking out of your ass.”

“No, I’m pretty sure. You’re totally defensive, and the nickname, and _dude,_ you haven’t been out trolling for a one-night-stand in months.”

“Have you considered that the only reason for that is that I haven’t been to any bars? You know, where lonely, hot, drunk chicks congregate?”

“You picked up a girl in a library once. If you were looking for some tail, you’d find some.”

“I’m glad you have such faith in my sexual prowess. It’s flattering, in a really creepy way. So, what’s that about you finding that Becky kid writing a gay porn novel at work?” Dean asked, desperately trying to change the subject.

“Fanfiction, apparently, and no way, Dean. I’m not dropping the subject until you admit that you have a thing for your therapist,” Sam said, giving him bitchface number sixty-three, determined bitchface. There was no escaping that one.

Dean rolled his eyes. “ _Fine._ I have a thing for my therapist. Happy?”

Sam did a happy dance in his chair, drawing strange looks from other patrons. “I _knew_ it!”

“You basically forced me into saying that!” Dean protested.

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam automatically retorted, but sobered abruptly. “You know that you seriously, _seriously_ can’t do anything about your mondo-crush on Cas, right? That’s unethical on about eight different levels.”

“Yeah, and illegal, too,” Dean grumbled.

“Wow, you like him enough to do actual research? Learning to use the internet for things other than porn? This must be a big deal. I almost wish he wasn’t your counselor.” Everything but the last statement was a joke.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean shrugged flippantly. “Even if he wasn’t, I’m still shit at relationships.”

“Only because you’ve never liked anyone enough to stick with them.”

“Or maybe it’s my commitment issues.”

“You have those?”

“Probably. Seems like everything else is wrong with me,” Dean said casually, but it took away whatever humor was left in the conversation. When he looked up, Sam was giving him the puppy dog eyes. He’d never been able to resist that damn face on his baby brother.

“It’s fine, Sam. I’m fine. Getting better every day. Look, I’m even eating a damn salad.”

Sam finally allowed the subject to change, then. “Yeah, I guess. So…speaking of relationships, I’m kind of seeing someone.”

Dean perked up. After Jess, Sam had stayed single for a _long_ time. There had been the brief thing with Sarah, the girl from the art museum, and then Madison, who Sam had met at the library, both of them looking for some book about werewolves or something. But neither had stuck. Jess’ shadow had always been looming over them. Maybe Sammy was finally ready to move on. Dean was glad…he deserved to be happy.

“Oh yeah? Tell me about her.”

“Her name’s Ruby, and she’s a dancer.”

“Not a librarian or something? Doesn’t seem your type,” Dean said, not sure he approved. Sure, dancers were fine for _him,_ but Sammy deserved a respectable woman. Not that a woman couldn’t be a dancer and respectable, but… Still, the idea was off-putting to Dean.

“No, she’s really cool, and funny. And you know what her hobby is? _Knife-throwing._ It’s seriously awesome. You should meet her sometime.”

And, shit, he had the _excited_ puppy face on. Dean relented. “Yeah, I guess knife-throwing is pretty badass. I’d like to meet her.”

Sam smiled, openly and widely in a way that Dean had rarely seen since…Jess. He found that he was smiling back, if maybe not quite to the same degree.

**_11\. No joy in building, love in the finishing_ **

Dean did not like Ruby. He did not like her one bit. She was sneaky, conniving, and definitely, definitely dishonest.

Sam, on the other hand, was convinced that she could do no wrong. It was actually, really, literally sickening to him. Seeing the way Ruby went out and partied too hard, and, Dean was pretty sure, got hopped up on more than just booze, made him grind his teeth. If she got Sam into any of that shit there would be hell to answer for. One Winchester brother was already an addict, and they did _not_ need to make it two-for-two.

The sad bit was, yeah, Ruby was hot, and that caustic sense of humor would have delighted Dean a year ago. Instead, he just found himself sickened by her. He wasn’t sure what made the difference—the sobering up, or the fact that maybe he was starting to really grow up.

Either way, he wasn’t particularly looking forward to having dinner with the two of them that evening. At least it was a Monday night—he could go complain to Cas about how horrible Ruby was the next afternoon. Castiel seemed to be on his side, said that Ruby displayed “enabling behavior” or something like that.

That was another thing he liked about Cas. Most people took one look at Dean and decided that he was an idiot that they needed to dumb down their speech for. Just because he hadn’t made it through high school didn’t actually make him stupid…and Cas was one of the few people that got that, and used million-dollar words casually, without even thinking about it. Dean had actually cracked his dictionary once or twice since meeting him.

He returned to the real world and frowned. He was thinking about the man way too much. Dean wasn’t having a crisis of sexuality in the normal way, exactly. Yeah, Cas was a man, and he got that. Yeah, he still wanted to do unmentionable things to his body; didn’t bother him overmuch. It was the fact that he was actually _holding out_ for him. That he hadn’t even considered calling the hot waitress from the diner when she had slipped him her number a few nights previously.

He wasn’t pining. Dean Winchester did not _pine._ But he had always been shit at relationships, content to toot it and boot it, rather than the two-point-five kids and a dog family man type. Oh, sure, there had been the thing with Cassie, which had ended horribly, and the thing with Lisa, with whom he was still on speaking terms, though she had obviously moved on from him. But nothing serious. Nothing real. And he hadn’t ever wanted it.

Before.

He just gripped the steering wheel tighter and drove on, trying to let the sounds of Zeppelin block out all his thoughts, Ruby, Cas, everything. It failed. He had worked himself into a fairly foul mood by the time he pulled into the driveway of Sam’s small house.

He put on a smile for his brother, though he couldn’t keep it when he saw Ruby appear from around a corner. That made Sam put on bitchface number sixty-two, but Dean wasn’t overly concerned. Dean did not like Ruby. Sam knew it. Sam was convinced that he just needed to give her a chance. Dean was convinced that she was bad news. It left the brothers in a bit of a stalemate.

Ruby had a beer with her dinner, as she had the other times Dean had been around her. At first, Sam had asked her if she didn’t mind having something else, Dean was in recovery. But she had just laughed, and said something like, “You’re a big boy, right, Dean? You don’t mind, do you?”

Yes, he actually did mind a little bit, thank you very much. But mostly, he wanted to roundhouse-kick the condescension out of her, but he figured that was a one-way ticket to never having Sammy speak to him again. And that was one thing that he didn’t want to happen. Not again.

So he sat through a truly _painful_ dinner, with Ruby practically in Sam’s lap, kissing him way too often and it was _way_ more than he wanted to see, especially when his little brother was involved. But he grit his teeth and ate his overcooked lasagna.

Until it grew to be too much.

Using the bathroom as an escape, he said, “I’m gonna go throw up, you guys are making me sick.” And practically fled down the hall.

He alternated between pacing the short length of the room and bracing himself against the sink. Ruby was _really_ pissing him off, and he was certain it wasn’t all overprotective big brother instinct. He really wanted a couple of drinks to calm him down…it hadn’t been this bad in weeks. It would be so easy to just leave, stop by a liquor store, and drink until he could pretend that Ruby didn’t exist and that his brother wasn’t a complete idiot.

No. _No._ Not again. He could call Cas. He _should_ call Cas. His phone was in his hands before he could think, and he was scrolling through his contacts list, but he chickened out just before hitting call, locking the screen and replacing it in his pocket. He could handle this…Cas wouldn’t always be there as his crutch.

Instead, he took a deep breath, and steeled himself to endure the rest of the dinner, planning to leave the moment it was socially acceptable for him to do so. Leave and go home, without any stops on the way. Home. _Straight_ home.

He was momentarily distracted by the sound of a voice coming from Sam’s bedroom, though, making him pause to listen.

“I know, baby, I know.” It was Ruby. God, was he listening in on something he really didn’t want to hear? Dean thought that Sam had more decency than that, but, Ruby _was_ a terrible influence.

But then she spoke again. “I _know._ I wish I could dump the lawyer right now.”

Another moment of silence. “He doesn’t even _have_ money…he’s practically broke paying off student loans!” Dean’s fists were clenched, and he wanted more than anything to burst in and demand to know what was going on, but he kept still. “I know…he must have _something._ I’ll get it for us…I just miss you, Lilith, baby.”

She kept talking, but Dean had heard enough. He stalked back down the hall to Sam, and said lowly, “We need to talk.”

“What’s this about?” Sam asked warily.

“Just…come outside.”

Haltingly, Sam followed Dean to the Impala, and they leaned against the hood while Dean tried to calm himself down.

“Dude, what’s up? You look like you’re about to explode.”

And then he did. “Ruby’s a cheating bitch and she’s using you.”

Sam glared. “Look, I know you don’t like her, but you have _no right_ to be making things up like that—”

“I’m not making up shit. When I got out of the bathroom she was on the phone with someone named _Lilith,_ saying how she _missed_ her.”

“I know about Lilith. Ruby told me. She’s her _ex.”_

“Well, they’re pretty cozy, for being broken up,” Dean said with a snarl.

“If you have a problem with her being bi, that’s pretty fucking hypocritical of you—” Sam started, but Dean cut him off.

“I don’t care if she likes men, women, or five-legged wombats. She’s _using you for your money._ ”

“That’s stupid and you know it. I don’t _have_ any money!”

“You’re a hotshot lawyer, how was she supposed to know that? Doesn’t change the fact that she’s in it for the money. And I wouldn’t put it past her to steal from you.”

“Okay, Dean, you know what? I have put up with your hostility toward Ruby for the past _month_ and I am _sick_ of your attitude. You can get over it, or you can leave, because she makes me happy—or do you have a problem with that? Want little Sammy to be as miserable as you are?” Sam said, his voice quiet through the whole thing, but Dean was as floored as if he had shouted it all and punctuated it with a punch to the face.

To make things worse, Ruby chose that moment to come outside and smile widely at them, completely missing the tension between Dean and his brother.

“There you are! Sorry, that was my boss on the phone—he can be so demanding,” she said, and Dean practically saw red.

“ _Bullshit,_ ” he spat at her, then turned to Sam. “See? She’s a _lying,_ cheating bitch who’s completely using you.”

Sam opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and said quietly, “Dean, I think you should leave.”

“Yeah, I think I will,” he said, snatching his keys out of his pocket. “And _maybe_ I’ll come back when you’ve come to your damn senses.”

“Have a nice life, then,” Sam shouted after him as Dean dropped into the driver’s seat of the Impala and slammed the door shut. He started her and pulled out into the street too quickly, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment.

Sam had always been Dean’s top priority in life—his brother was his reason for being sober.

He didn’t really think until he was back in the car after stopping, the brown bag in the front seat, the bottle of whiskey within calling to him like a lover.

And then the guilt hit him like a tidal wave, and he hunched over in his seat, miserable. It would be so easy to go drink away his problems, but he knew better, now…the comfortable haze didn’t fix anything. Still, anything to forget, just for tonight, just for a little while.

The only thing that stopped him from opening the bottle there and then was the absurdly vivid image of Castiel’s face that popped into his head, full of despair, disappointment. More than anything, he wanted to talk to him, _needed_ it. Instead of reaching for the paper bag in the passenger seat, he retrieved his phone from his pocket with shaking hands.

It was dialing. He put it up to his ear, breathing harshly.

“Dean?” Cas finally said upon answering, and his voice, tinny over the phone, was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever heard.

“Cas,” he replied, voice thick. Now that he had him on the phone, Dean didn’t know what to say.

“Is something wrong?” Castiel asked after a short silence, and Dean’s eyes slid to the bag next to him.

“You could say that,” he said with a small, slightly hysterical laugh.

“Do you want to talk about it?” The voice was soft, calm, exactly what he needed to hear. Suddenly he ached just to be near Cas, as wrong as it was. But he needed him… His presence, like a soothing rain on fevered skin.

“I…not like this.” He paused, and almost backed out, but went on with it. “Are you busy…can I meet you somewhere?”

There was a silence that stretched almost too long, becoming brittle. “I’m at home. Is that okay, or would you prefer somewhere public?”

He drew in a breath, nerves fluttering amidst everything else. “What’s the address?”

Cas hesitated again before answering. “1455 Palo Santo Avenue. Do you need directions?”

“No, I know the area…I’ll be there soon,” he said, hands beginning to shake.

“Be careful,” Castiel said, and the line went dead.

**_12\. I want to come close, I want to come closer_ **

Castiel wasn’t pacing frantically when the knock on the door finally came. He had been sitting quietly at his kitchen table, going to pieces without moving a muscle.

For over half a year, now, he had been wringing his hands over the same problem, and he was beginning to worry that it was taking its toll on his sanity. So easily, he had let Dean break through the barriers he had spent so much of himself building. So when the rapping sounded on his front door, soft, tentative somehow, he closed his eyes for a long moment before going to answer. Because he knew now, that there was no point denying it anymore: he would always let Dean in.

He opened the door, and caught his breath. Backlit by the street lamps, Dean was beautiful, beautifully shattered, more broken than he had ever seen the man before.

“Dean,” he said, opening the door wider to allow him in.

“Cas,” he said, unmoving. Dean reached out a hand, like he was going to touch him, make sure that he was real, but he dropped the arm before he could, and shuffled into the house.

The lights were all off, leaving the house swathed in shadow, so he couldn’t read anything on Dean’s face, but he could infer from his posture and his harsh, too-fast breathing that everything was _not_ okay.

“Please sit down,” Castiel requested softly, trying to put himself in counselor mode…that was why Dean had called him. He had needed someone to talk to, not someone stupidly in love with him.

Dean nodded and followed Castiel to his sparse living room, sinking down shakily onto the couch while Castiel turned on a lamp to chase the darkness away. And when he looked at Dean afterwards, broken didn’t begin to cover what he saw on his face.

“Would you like anything?” Castiel asked softly, gesturing toward the kitchen. Dean didn’t look up.

“No…No, I’m alright.” He shook his head a little too long.

“Are you, though?” Castiel asked, wanting more than anything to be able to do something about the way his eyes filled then, the deep, shuddering breath he took.

“No, Cas. I don’t think I am.” He closed his eyes, tightly, unnaturally still.

He deliberated for all of half a second before sitting on the couch next to Dean and setting a hand on his shoulder, imagining that he could feel the heat of his skin through the layers of clothing.

“You don’t have to hold it in, Dean. You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he said softly, and didn’t miss the way Dean leaned in toward his touch, seeming desperate for any sort of closeness.

There was quiet, and Castiel despaired for a moment when it seemed like Dean was drawing into himself again, but then, like the tide surging forward, the dam broke, his face crumpled, and he leaned forward to cover his eyes with his hand, his shoulders shaking hard under Castiel’s touch.

When he spoke, his voice was thick, gruff. “Sam more or less told me to get out of his life.”

Castiel’s grip tightened instinctively and his mouth opened in a small frown. Dean had said, more than once, that everything he was doing, becoming a better man, was for Sam, because Sam deserved better than that. Castiel didn’t necessarily agree—he thought far too much of Dean for that, thought that he owed it to himself, but he had never said it. Still, he could fathom how deeply this must be hurting him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, angling himself toward Dean, and causing their knees to bump together.

He looked up, wrecked, eyes still shining brightly, and worked his throat, like he was trying to make the words form, and failing. But finally, they did, and Dean told him all about Ruby, and what he’d overheard on the phone. His tone fluctuated between broken and angry, fists clenching in his lap. Castiel felt his own anger rising, some for Sam, and how he was being used, but also _at_ Sam, and _entirely_ for Dean.

“…And so I ended up at a liquor store, with no idea what I was doing. I just wanted to forget…it hasn’t been this bad in so long, Cas, but, I guess it’s like what you said…Finding something to live for… and now I don’t have anyone.”

“That’s not true,” Castiel replied before he had a chance to really think about what was coming out of his mouth. He tried to fix it, “You have your coworkers…your boss obviously cares about you…”

“There’s you,” Dean said, cutting right to the heart of it.

Castiel hesitated. “There is me.”

“Sometimes I feel like you’re the only one here for me, Cas, even though I was just some guy that got assigned to you,” he said quietly, looking to the floor.

Castiel swallowed. He was definitely in dangerous territory, now. “You were never just an assignment to me, Dean.”

“A client then,” he said dismissively.

His breath caught. “More than that, too.”

Dean tensed, but didn’t look up. “Because you’ve been more than just a shrink to me, too. For a while, now.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say without giving up all the proprietary distance he’d tried so hard to keep all these months. But Dean was set on breaking through those walls, too.

“When I got into this, I expected to hate you, and all this feelings crap. And I did, for a long time. But you…you listened to me, to everything, all my sins, and you still decided I was worth something, and I don’t get that, Cas, but I can’t tell you what it means to me.” He did look up, then. “What you mean to me.”

And Castiel wasn’t so dense that he didn’t know exactly what Dean meant. If his life was a novel, he’d be thrilled that the man he loved returned his sentiments, but it was real life, and all it did was make rejecting him more painful for them both.

“Don’t…I _can’t,_ ” he said softly, finally dropping his hand from Dean’s shoulder. His eyes were squeezed shut so he couldn’t see the look on Dean’s face, the hurt, the inevitable betrayal he’d find there. He clenched his jaw against the pointless excuses that he wanted to come up with, but it wouldn’t do anything to lessen the damage. He only wished he could shut his ears, too.

“You…” for a moment, he sounded hopeful, almost awestruck. Then, so much more softly, “Why not, Cas?”

His jaw ached with the strain of keeping it shut, so when he spoke, it came out more harshly than he had intended it. “I really can’t…my job…”

“What if I stopped seeing you as a client?” he asked, desperately persistent.

“It’s wrong, Dean. I’m supposed to be your doctor, someone you can trust to do help you…you shouldn’t be worrying about me having…inappropriate feelings for you.”

“Why? I need you Cas,” he said, voice breaking.

“I just… It’s not right,” he said, weakly, wanting more than anything to give in.

He felt, more than heard Dean move, and he opened his eyes, finding the man shifting closer to him, leaning so close that all he would have to do would be to tilt his face up and their lips would be touching. He drew in a deep, shaky breath, met Dean’s eyes with a silent plea. He didn’t see it, though, eyes sliding shut before he tilted his face and moved in that last inch, pressing a kiss to Castiel’s mouth.

For a brief second, he responded, eyes closing as he gripped Dean’s forearm. Then, every doubt, every fear came rushing back into his mind, and he snapped his head back, breaking the contact.

“I—” he began, but Dean cut him off.

“If you don’t want this too, tell me to stop, Cas,” he said, barely above a whisper, unmoving. It would be so easy to give in, to finally taste those perfect lips, to know what he would look like with kiss-roughened lips and eyes half-lidded in pleasure. Castiel shivered, and almost, _almost_ leaned into Dean, but the echo of his father’s voice sounded in his ear, guilt pouring over him like glacial ice.

“…stop,” he said, releasing his grip on Dean’s arm and leaning as far back as he could.

Dean took a deep breath, and simply said, “Okay, then.”

And before Castiel could really process what he was doing, Dean had stood up and all but fled the room. He heard the front door slam a moment later.

Castiel rested his head in his hands, wishing he could just go numb.

**_13\. I held your name inside my mouth through all the days of wandering_ **

Castiel was in the same position he had been the night before, at the kitchen table, hands folded in front of his face in a travesty of prayer. The morning light filtering through the window was the only light. He hadn’t moved since waking up from a fitful sleep, and somehow going through the motions of getting dressed.

He should go to work. His only client was… Well, he wouldn’t be showing up, most likely, but Castiel had paperwork he needed to do and…

He ran the checklist through in his head, all the while trying to pretend that he wasn’t thinking about doing what he was thinking about doing. The coffee slowly cooled on the table, and went ice cold before he moved, desperately not thinking.

When he did, it was a startled jump, the shrill beeping of his cell phone startling in the silence.

It was probably his work, asking if he was okay, if they needed to cancel his appointment.

He should answer it. He had a good job…it wasn’t something he was willing to give up. It _wasn’t._ He swallowed grimly, knowing that the only person he was trying to convince was himself.

He slipped the phone from his trouser pocket and glanced at the display. It wasn’t a number he recognized. Not work then. And not D… anyone he was familiar with.

He let it ring.

A few moments of strained silence later, the infernal ringing came again. It was the same series of digits.

This time he picked up. “Doctor Castiel Novak,” he answered roughly.

“Thank God,” a slightly familiar voice said. “You know what I had to go through to get this number?”

“Who is this?” Castiel asked, not in the mood for small talk.

“Bobby Singer—trying to find out what’s up with Dean.”

Time stopped for a moment, and Castiel’s heart began thudding in his chest. He already had a bad, _bad_ feeling about where this was going.

“Did he not come in for work?” He asked, barely keeping his voice in check.

“Naw, and the idjit won’t answer his damn phone either. I tried calling Sam to see if he knew anything, but the boy just got pissy about it, which I’m guessing means they had a fight.” He paused, and Castiel could hear the gravitas underlying the nonchalant gruffness. “With Dean not exactly on top of his game, I’m a little worried. Anyway, you’re really his only friend, sad as _that_ is, so I figured you might have an idea—“

“This is my fault,” he said, quietly, shattering, ignoring Bobby’s startled, _“Come again?”_

“This is my fault,” he repeated, “But I’m going to fix it. Is Dean at home?”

“Uhh… Well, I don’t know where else he’d be,” Bobby answered cautiously.

“Good. Thank you,” Castiel replied before flipping his phone shut.

His suit was rumpled, tie loose around his neck. He would never have gone into work looking like he did. Still, that was the direction he began driving, after pulling on his old trench coat like a security blanket, despite the hot weather.

Yes, he’d be going to knock some sense into Dean, but first, he had some business to take care of.

Out of habit, Castiel parked his car in his usual spot, but walked straight past the building he worked in and through a weed-covered courtyard to the administration wing of the main building, slipping through the door into the sterile-smelling hallway.

He knew the way to the office, though he’d only been there once before, when he had been hired. When the doorknob was in his hand, he didn’t even think to knock, walking straight in.

Uriel and Zachariah ceased in their conversation at his intrusion, both turning to look at him reproachfully.

“I apologize, Uriel, but I need to speak with Mr. Adler.” When he didn’t move, Castiel hardened his voice, and added, “At once, if you don’t mind.”

“This had best be important, Novak,” he growled, but left the room, deliberately bumping him out of the way as he did so.

“What’s this about, Doctor?” Zachariah said, with that easy arrogance that made Castiel grind his teeth whenever they were forced to be in the same room. “Have a seat, make yourself comfortable. You look tense.”

“I quit.”

“You—you what?” he replied, and any other time, Castiel would have savored the look of genuine shock that crossed the smarmy bastard’s face.

“I. Quit. I’m turning in my license.”

The calm veneer returned, and Zachariah smirked. “Is this about Dean Winchester? Honestly, Castiel, you can do better.”

“You know _nothing_ about him,” Castiel snapped, reaching the limit of his tolerance for the day.

“Well, that rather answers my question. Now, you don’t really want to do this…Just think of your career. You’re off to a very successful start, minus this little…crush of yours. We can all pretend this never happened, as long as you…”

He didn’t wait to hear what Zachariah had to say. “No. I’m done. I voluntarily surrender my license and…whatever legal processes I have to do for that. I just can’t do them right now. Goodbye.”

“Castiel—wait,” was all he heard before the door was shutting behind him again. Trying not to shake with the enormity of what he’d just done, he all but ran back to his car.

It was for Dean. Everything was for Dean.

The city was a blur as he single-mindedly drove to Dean’s apartment. The Impala was parked—he had to be there. He pulled into the empty space next to it and got out of the car.

He had already knocked on the door directly in front of Dean’s car when he realized that he didn’t actually know if that was his apartment or not. Either way, too late to go back now.

A young bearded man answered the door, a confused look on his face.

“I’m looking for Dean Winchester. Do you know where he lives?” Castiel asked before he could get a word in.

The man blinked, and pointed vaguely up. “The mechanic, right? The apartment right above mine, I think,” he said.

“Thank you,” he replied and walked off without another word, scaling the staircase two steps at a time. When he reached the door the man had indicated, he knocked loudly, hurting his fist.

There was no answer from inside. He only knocked harder.

After a good two minutes of that his hand was sore, and he was beginning to wonder if the man had given him the right apartment after all. Then, finally, a voice that was unmistakably Dean’s came through the door.

“God motherfucking damn it, you son of a bitch, I’m on my way, quit your fucking knocking!” He yanked the door open, and Castiel had just enough time to see that he looked like a wreck, eyes bloodshot, face unshaven, dressed in the same clothes from last night, before the door was shutting in his face again.

He reacted quickly, shouldering his way in by force. The first thing he saw was an empty whiskey bottle on the table by the couch, and a silent fury filled him.

Without really thinking about it, his fist—the same one that he had been abusing the door with—met Dean’s cheekbone, knocking the man backwards, reeling until he was stabilized by a wall.

“I turned in my medical license for this,” he hissed, grabbing the shoulders of Dean’s jacket, pinning him down, “So that you could give up on everything?”

“Cas, please,” Dean said weakly, turning his head to avoid looking into Castiel’s eyes.

He just shoved him more roughly against the wall. “I gave up everything I’ve worked for, all for you. And this,” he paused and released one of Dean’s shoulders to gesture accusingly at the bottle across the room, “ _This_ is how you repay me?”

He released Dean entirely and took a disgusted step back, not moving as he crumpled to the ground without the support.

Defensive now, angry, Dean looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “What are you gonna do Cas, hit me again? Will that make you feel better? Come on then. Do it. Just do it!” The last words were a shout. For a moment, his fist flexed and he considered doing just that.

But no. Several deep breaths, and he relaxed, letting his shoulders drop, his fingers uncurling to hang limply at his sides. Another moment and he finally had the presence of mind to close the door, sparing a thought to hope that none of the neighbors had called the police.

Then, he held out a hand to help Dean up.

He didn’t accept it, and used the wall instead, eyeing Castiel warily all the while. The hand dropped. He winced when Dean gingerly rubbed at his cheek…it wasn’t showing yet, but Castiel knew from his time in the army that he had hit Dean hard enough for it to bruise.

“Will you be alright?” he asked lowly, finally. It was the closest thing he was going to get to an apology with the rage still simmering within him.

“Uh—fine, I guess. What the hell, Cas?” His anger wasn’t hidden nearly as well, but Castiel didn’t shy away from the dark fire in his eyes.

He didn’t answer immediately, instead shrugging off his jacket and tossing it haphazardly on the back of the couch. Then, he picked up the empty liquor bottle, and very deliberately took it into the kitchen, dropping it into the trash.

When he settled onto the couch, Dean hadn’t moved from his spot by the door.

“I went to my boss today and surrendered my medical license,” he said, calm this time.

“You—you what?” Dean asked, turning to face him.

“I quit. My job. Gave it up. And it did it, all of it, for you. Only to come in here and find that you’re doing your best to undo the last six months,” he looked Dean square in the eye, and tried not to feel vindicated when he looked away guiltily.

“Yeah, well, Sam’s pissed, and you didn’t want me around either—I didn’t have any reason not to,” Dean said defensively.

“Have you ever considered that maybe _you_ should be the reason you want to change?” He asked harshly.

“You’re the one who told me that doesn’t work. And maybe I’m not worth saving, Cas. Ever consider _that_?” He threw his arms out wide, taking a few steps into the room.

“No,” Castiel answered seriously, face blank as their eyes met, and held there. Dean was the one to look away first.

“Then maybe you should think again. I’m not worth it,” he said, with less heat this time.

Castiel’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t about to sit and listen to this self-hating shit. “Fine, then. I’ll go.”

He made a move to collect his coat, but a brief look of deep, sincere pain flashed across Dean’s face, and he froze mid-action. Perhaps trying that tactic on someone with severe abandonment issues…hadn’t been his finest idea.

“Wait, Cas, I…” He stopped, and gingerly sank down on the opposite end of the couch.

“Yes?” he prompted softly, straining for his ‘patient therapist’ tone.

“I started saving up. To go back to school. Ever since you suggested it. That’s why I’ve been working all those extra hours at Bobby’s…” he rambled.

Castiel blinked, confused. It was excellent news, but he didn’t understand why he was telling him this _now._ “Okay?”

“I…just. Look, Cas, I really am trying to turn my life around, man. There are just…bumps in the road or—fuck it, this is a shit metaphor.” He put an arm in front of his eyes and leaned back.

Castiel didn’t respond. Wasn’t sure what to say without brushing him off or making everything worse. Eventually Dean put his arm back at his side and looked hesitantly over. Weakly, he smiled.

“Why are you still talking to me like a shrink, anyway?”

“I will never stop caring for you, Dean, license or no,” he said before his filter caught the words. Dean’s eyebrows shot up and he blinked rapidly.

“I, um. Oh. Well, then.”

A long moment passed, and Castiel was afraid he’d said too much.

“So…when you say ‘caring,’ you do mean…you know, _caring,_ caring, right?” Dean asked, a hopeful edge to his voice. Castiel found himself thinking of the kind of notes elementary school students passed to one another, according to Claire: _‘Do you like me? Y/N’_

“Yes, Dean, I am interested in pursuing a relationship with you,” he said, going for reassuring, but the sigh at the end of the statement rather ruined that effect.

“Oh,” Dean said, “Well, uh, it’s mutual.”

“I assumed as much,” Castiel said, looking at the door, the floor, the television set across the room.

“Oh. Yeah. Last night. Right.” He ducked his head and rubbed the short hair at the nape of his neck. “In that case, maybe we could get some coffee, or…something.”

Castiel winced. He wanted to, he really, really did, but not today. Any day but today. His head was spinning with the enormity of what he’d done, all but throwing away his career, coming here, punching Dean in the face—which he felt truly terrible about, despite still being more than a little upset with Dean—and now…whatever this was. Was becoming.

“Not right now…” He said, not realizing that it sounded like a brush off until a moment later, so he added. “Is, um, tomorrow evening okay? I can cook…”

“Um, yeah, sure. Great,” Dean replied, and they finally made eye contact, then.

Abruptly, Castiel stood up, somehow afraid of staying any longer. “I need to go deal with the fallout from work…I’ll see you tomorrow, Dean. Eight?”

Dean nodded, a small smile forming under the tempest of emotions in his face. “Okay.”

He began to walk out, pausing again when his hand was on the doorknob.

“One more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Sober up. And stay that way.”

A pause. “I know, Cas. I know.”

Then he was out the door, and, had he closed it back a split second earlier, he would have missed the murmured, “I’m sorry,” from inside.

The walls were down, now, torn apart brick by brick, mortar crumbled into dust. Their hands were bruised, scraped, and bloody. But that meant they could begin to heal. And something good could be built between them, instead.

Castiel let go of the doorknob and went home.

**_14\. Until the sky shudders open, impossibly wide_ **

Dean kept straightening his shirt, adjusting the cuffs, checking the button, making sure his pants weren’t wrinkled. He was honest-to-god nervous. He didn’t know when the last time he’d actually been nervous before a date was.

He wasn’t sure when the last time he’d actually had a date was. Probably Cassie, or Lisa…and that had been years ago. He didn’t count drunken fumbling or nameless hookups as dates.

 But Cas…this was a big deal to him. He wasn’t sure when it had happened. He could see why, easily…for the man to look at him, see every flaw, every scar, and to still exude warmth and respect. His mind flashed back to the day before, and the bruise on his right cheek…He winced. He didn’t blame Cas, though. He _had_ had it coming.

What he didn’t understand, though, was how Castiel could possibly feel the same way about him. Dean was just another guy plagued by his personal demons, and surely Cas had talked to plenty of people just like him in his…former…career.

And then Cas had gone and quit his damn job to be with Dean…it was too much. He’d probably never admit it out loud, but he owed Castiel more than he could say. Probably owed him his life.

Either way, their strange, more-than-a-little fucked up relationship was about to actually _happen,_ and Dean was determined to do it right, this time.

Of course, he had told himself that with Lisa, too. But he actually meant it, this time.

The song ended and he realized that he had been sitting in the Impala outside Cas’ house for a good ten minutes, working up the courage to go in.

 _Don’t be a girl, Winchester,_ he told himself, and opened the door, grabbing the plastic sack out of the passenger seat. Finally, he rang the doorbell, damn butterflies having a party in his stomach. What, was he suddenly in high school again?

Cas opened the door and it was suddenly just like the other night. “Dean.” His eyes lingered on Dean’s face, regretfully eyeing the bruise before doing a once over. “You look nice,” he added softly, and Dean was glad he’d decided on something other than his usual tee shirt and jeans. Cas, on the other hand, had dressed down, in a soft knit cobalt blue shirt with a white smudge that Dean guessed was flour near the hem.

“Thank you. You too…Second time I’ve ever seen you out of a suit,” he replied before accepting the invitation in when the door was opened wide.

He followed Cas to a kitchen, which smelled really, _really_ good.

“So—uh… You cook?” he asked, searching for a conversation starter while he discreetly checked the house out. He hadn’t exactly been focusing on the furnishings last time…it was a nice house, but so…Spartan. Cas didn’t seem to believe in decorating.

“Ah, yes,” he answered, stirring something. “My father was never around much, so I learned to feed myself.”

“I guess I can sympathize, except I never had a chance to cook…I grew up on fast food…surprised I’m not three hundred pounds.” He paused, and awkwardly held out the plastic bag. “I have a contribution. It’s customary or something to bring wine, but…”

The look on Castiel’s face let him know immediately that the comment, joking or otherwise, was not appreciated. Apparently Dean was not yet forgiven. Still, he accepted the bag, and pulled out the bottle of grape juice. He did smile at that, and Dean smiled at Cas smiling. Damn it, he was becoming some sort of sap.

“Anything I can help with?” Dean asked after Cas had put the bottle in his (unadorned, and seriously, who didn’t have at least one magnet?) fridge.

“Ah…everything’s just about done, actually, except the pie,” Castiel replied, gesturing vaguely toward the oven while he took a pot off the top of the stove.

“You make pie?”

“I…do now,” he said, and Dean could have sworn he saw a faint blush.

“Oh, god, I _knew_ you were perfect,” he said thoughtlessly, and almost kicked himself before he remembered that they were…something, now. He was…allowed to say those things now, right?

Either way, Cas only smiled again, faintly, before draining the pasta and getting plates down for them. They served themselves and sat down at the small table in the kitchen—he guessed Cas didn’t have a dining room or whatever, which was fine with him. 

They made small talk through the meal, avoiding serious topics like the day before, or Sam, or Dean going back to school, or what Cas was going to do now, without his job. At some point, the timer went off, and Castiel pulled the pie out of the oven, filling the room with the smell of cinnamon and apples. Dean had wanted to try the pie straight away, but Castiel insisted that it be allowed to cool. Since Dean had never baked a pie, merely enjoyed the finished product, he reluctantly bowed to Cas’ orders.

They migrated to the living room and Cas fiddled with the TV, putting on something about nature and then muting it anyway while Dean looked around the room. It was just as bare as the kitchen and the hall had been, with the exception of a large painting hanging on the wall opposite the couch. It depicted the sea in storm, with one ray of light breaking through the clouds.

“That’s nice,” he said, pointing at the painting.

“I thought so,” Cas agreed, “I find it very…symbolic.”

“I can see that, yeah,” Dean agreed.

He looked over and found Cas staring at him again, looking unhappy.

“What’s up?” he asked.

His reply was to reach out gently, brushing his thumb over the bruise on Dean’s face. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s fine, Cas. I’m not mad,” he said honestly.

“I still should never have done that…I _don’t_ do that kind of thing,” he said, dropping his hand back to his side.

“I probably would have punched me too, in that situation,” Dean offered, trying for humor, but at the way Cas winced and looked down, he hadn’t succeeded.

“I haven’t hurt anyone since the war, and then you…It will not ever happen again, Dean,” he said, raising his head so their eyes met, and Dean nodded.

“I believe you, Cas.” And he did. He had been pretty shocked yesterday, though the whiskey-flavored haze, but he really did understand. There’d been times when he’d gotten so pissed he’d broken things, yelled, and thrown the occasional punch himself.

“Thank you…” a pause, and Dean really, really wanted to take Cas’ hand, sitting on the couch space between them. “I think we need to talk about yesterday, though.”

He grimaced, and tightened his grip in his pants instead. “I was an idiot. Can we leave it at that?”

“You were,” Cas agreed, “But no. Why did you do it?”

“You know why…” he deflected.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Same as always.” He shrugged, looking away. “I just wanted to forget…I fucked everything up with Sammy, thought I’d fucked everything up with you. Wasn’t sure I had anything to live for anymore.”

“You’re always living your life for other people, Dean…”

“I know. Pathetic, isn’t it?” he said with a self-deprecating laugh.

“No. Selfless. You’re so much better than you think you are and sometimes I want to shake you until you realize that,” Castiel said, eliciting a small laugh of surprise from Dean. He was beginning to see a divide between therapist Cas and real Cas. The core was the same, but some of the details seemed downright contradictory. He wanted to know more.

“Yeah, well, I’m off it for good now, anyway. No more. All cured,” he said.

“Dean, we both know it doesn’t work like that,” Cas said sadly.

He sighed. “Yeah. But now I’ve got you to help me through it, right? You’re not going to let me fall,” he said, looking over, and damn it, he was _not_ blushing.

“I don’t know why you have such faith in me, Dean,” Cas replied, not returning the look.

“You’ve been there for me, and, besides, you were able to overcome this whole…addiction, business,” he said nonchalantly, but it went so much deeper than that.

Cas winced. “I overcame it, yeah. After a suicide attempt and two months in rehab.” Dean raised his eyebrows, not having heard this bit of Castiel’s story before.

“You never told me that.”

“I…tried to keep some professionalism,” he admitted. “But yes. I was twenty-three. Took a whole bottle of narcotics. Would have worked, too, except Gabriel decided to drop in that night.”

It reminded Dean a _lot_ of what had happened with him, but without the intent behind the overdose… Still, “And yet you picked yourself up and became a doctor. You keep telling me how awesome I supposedly am. Ever think that the same principle applies to you?”

The profound silence from the other end of the couch let him know that, no, Castiel hadn’t considered that.

He did take his hand, then, and finally, the man looked at him, expression wide and open, and the tension in that look was like an electric current. Dean shivered, but didn’t move.

This time, Castiel was the one to kiss Dean. The stupid butterflies, which had gone dormant, erupted. He slid his eyes closed, wrapping his free hand around Cas’ neck to tangle in his hair, running his fingers through it like he’d wanted to for _months._ For a long moment, time stopped, and the friction between their lips was the only moving thing in the world. There was nothing sexual about the kiss. It was support, comfort, catharsis. Dean had never felt anything like it, had never really bothered with kissing without direct intent for it to lead to something more. It was one of the best things he’d ever felt.

He couldn’t say how long they stayed like that, but eventually, it changed, with a small noise from Castiel’s throat, and he was opening his mouth to Dean’s, an invitation. He eagerly returned the gesture, shivering at the first contact between their tongues. Cas’ stubble scraped across his chin, their mouths dancing, exploring, plundering, memorizing. It wasn’t anything like his random hookups, overly painted girls whose numbers never made it into his phone. He was active, not submissive in the least, but mostly, the difference was that he was _Cas._

He was still gripping Castiel’s hand, he realized, holding it so tightly that his fingers creaked when he did let go, wanting to be closer, as close as their side-by-side sitting positions would allow. Castiel had the same idea, breaking the kiss with a small gasp for air, then pulling Dean on top of him as he leaned back. They took a moment to adjust their legs on the too-short couch, and the sight of Castiel under him in the half-light of the room, hair mussed, lips swollen, blue eyes wide and staring back into his, was an image he’d carry forever.

He didn’t take too long to savor it, though. Months of waiting, hopeless wanting, and finally it was happening. Dean hadn’t come tonight expecting this—as far as he had planned, it was just going to be dinner, some talking. He wasn’t complaining, but, now that it actually _was_ happening, he didn’t want to wait another second.

He met Cas’ mouth again, letting out a rough groan, hands clutching in his shirt, over his shoulder blades, crushing their chests together. Their kisses were different now, urgent, holding a hint of desperation. Their bodies were lined up, legs tangled, and Dean was already half-hard, just from the slight contact with Cas’ thigh.

His breathing was harsh through his nose, and he slipped his lips from Castiel’s to mouth at his throat, a thrill of _want_ going through him with every pant, sigh, quiet moan.

“Dean,” he said, voice rough and breathless, even lower than usual, “Bedroom.”

He froze, lips in the hollow of Cas’ throat. “Yeah. Okay,” he replied. Legs shaky, he stood up, and then took a step back when Castiel also got off the couch.

Almost businesslike, Castiel led the way down the hall, and into a room that was as undecorated as the rest of the house, dominated by a large bed, covered with a deep white comforter. Dean’s heart rate increased at the sight of it, and, _yeah,_ he was nervous. He’d never been with a guy, and it had been a while, months, since he’d been with anyone at all. And this, _this,_ he hadn’t expected to happen in a million years. He’d wanted to take it slow, do things, _right_ with Cas. But he had a feeling that _that_ wasn’t what was about to happen.

The door was shut behind him and they met halfway in another surge of heat, hands everywhere, in his hair, the small of his back, thighs, ass. It wasn’t a gentle exploration of bodies, no, that would have to come later. Dean wanted to be as close to Castiel as possible, to touch, to taste every inch of him. He raised his hands to the collar of his shirt and began unbuttoning it, quickly, with no finesse, not bothering to put on a show. But Castiel watched anyway, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. It sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through Dean’s body, and his breathing sped up, until it stopped altogether.

Cas’ shirt joined Dean’s in a haphazard pile on the floor, and he was perfect in the ghostly glow of the streetlights, seeping in through the cracks in the blinds. He was lean, toned, not bulky. There were scars, but they only made him more beautiful, proof that he had faced tribulation, and had come out on top.

“Cas,” he breathed, voice husky, and then they were kissing again, hot, rough, tongues battling for dominance. Dean didn’t realize they’d reached the bed until he felt the mattress press against the backs of his legs. He allowed himself to be pushed backwards onto it, and gasped when the other man’s firm thigh slid between his, narrow hips fitting with his own, and, fuck, if he hadn’t been completely hard before, he definitely was, now. It was difficult to tell through the layers of fabric between them, but he was pretty certain that Cas was in the same state of affairs.

Soft lips met the side of his neck, and he tilted his head for better access. The contrast between the smooth wetness of Castiel’s lips and the roughness of his chin left Dean shuddering, wanting more. His mouth moved across his jaw line, down over his clavicle, and one hand skimmed Dean’s chest, rubbing the pad of his thumb over a nipple, leaving Dean somehow both panting and breathless, and really, _really_ wanting to touch Castiel, to make _him_ lose control.

“Cas,” he half-whispered, “Can I touch you?”

There was a moment of silence, and Dean was afraid for a moment that Castiel was going to back out, but then, he released a shuddering breath, and replied, “God, yes.”

Using one of his favorite tricks, Dean flipped him, so that he was straddling Cas. He set his lips back in the hollow of Castiel’s throat, moving over his chest, lightly dragging his teeth over both nipples before going to his navel, kissing that spot while he worked on the button of Cas’ jeans with hands that might as well have been made of wood. He finally got it open, and drew his hand over the bulge in Castiel’s pants, savoring the gasp-moan he let out at the contact, before pulling the zipper down. He lifted his hips, allowing Dean to tug the denim down, and his boxer-briefs were dragged with them partway, exposing dark hair and the base of Cas’ erection.

He froze for a moment, unsure of what to do, now. Dean had never really seen another guy’s dick up close or anything, let alone touched one, but he _had_ one, and it couldn’t be _that_ different from getting himself off. Trying not to think too hard about it, he slipped a hand under the waistband and gripped Cas, using his other hand to push the fabric down and out of the way.

Yeah, it was a little weird, touching another guy like this, but not really a bad weird. He gave an experimental stroke, head to base, and Cas moaned, not loud, not wanton, but still less control than he had ever seen the man display before. Yeah. Definitely the good kind of weird. Carefully, he maneuvered so that he was face-to-face with Cas again, supporting his weight with one hand and kissing him sloppily and still moving his other hand over Castiel’s cock in a gentle grip.

“Tell me how you like it,” Dean asked lowly, beginning to feel a little more confident. It wasn’t an invitation to dirty talk, he really wanted to know what to do to make Cas feel as good as possible. After all the man had done for him, he wanted to do that for him.

“Tighter,” Cas gasped, “Not going to break.” That voice, already like tires crunching over gravel, seemed to have dropped an octave, and _fuck,_ it was sexy. Dean complied immediately, watching as Cas’ eyes fluttered closed and he grasped the sheets in a death grip.

They didn’t speak again, and the only sounds in the room were Castiel’s gasps, wordless whispers, and the slick pumping of Dean’s fist between them. They didn’t so much kiss as blindly press open mouths at each other.

It didn’t take long before let out another soft moan, and spilled over Dean’s hand, mouthing his name over and over as he lay, boneless, beneath him. He  wiped his hand off on the sheets and lifted himself off Castiel and over to the side, pausing to let his eyes roam over the man’s body, the pale flesh, nipples stiff and red, lips swollen, hair impossibly mussed. He suppressed a groan and settled beside Cas, pressing his lips to the crook of his neck in an open-mouthed kiss.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever been so turned-on, honestly. His own dick was straining at the front of his pants like it could rip out the seams, and he was half-tempted to just take care of it himself, but Castiel turned his head, catching Dean’s mouth with his own, and making thoughts scatter beyond _want, want, want._ He certainly didn’t whimper when Cas broke away.

“Dean,” he said, voice still lower than usual. And—yeah, sexiest thing ever. He really, really hoped Cas was up for returning the favor.

“Cas,” he replied, able to hear how rough and low his own voice was.

“I need you to take off your pants,” he demanded, and who was Dean to disobey an order like that? He raised his hips and stripped as quickly as he could, kicking the cloth to the floor, one foot still in the cuff when Cas, apparently having ditched his own pants, rolled on top of him and planted a bruising kiss on his lips. And then the contact was gone, leaving Dean gasping like there wasn’t enough air in the room.

It was no time at all, and interminably long when Cas’ fist fastened around the base of his cock, and then something warm, wet was trailing up the underside.

“Oh, god,” Dean said breathlessly.

“Thank you for the compliment, Dean, but no,” Castiel said, and then his lips closed over Dean’s erection, taking him down to the back of his throat, then almost all the way off, swirling his tongue around the head in a way that had Dean writhing, making Cas hold his hips down with his free hand.

Those lips were heaven, Dean thought absently. Where had his nerdy little counselor learned to suck cock like this? Cas’ hand moved to toy with his balls, and _damn it,_ it had been too long, he couldn’t take much of this. _Fuck,_ but he wasn’t going to last.

“Oh, go—Cas, Cas, I’m gonna,” he said, but Castiel only took him in as deep as he could, and _sucked,_ cheeks hollowing out, and Dean completely lost it, coming so hard his vision went white for a long moment, boneless lethargy seeping into his bones, not moving as Castiel pulled off of him and rearranged to lay beside and half-on-top-of Dean.

When Cas kissed him, he could taste himself in his mouth, and that was kind of really hot, even though he wouldn’t be up for round two for…a while. He wasn’t seventeen anymore.

“You know what I just realized?” Castiel asked softly, sounding serious.

“What’s that?” Dean asked, hoping the answer wouldn’t kill the easy peace they found themselves in, sated, like a bubble was protecting them from the shit storm going on outside that room.

“The pie has probably gotten cold by now,” he said, and Dean laughed. Cas laughed, too, but neither of them moved. Dean took it as an invitation to stay, rolling onto his side and resting his head on Cas’ chest.

“Also,” Cas said again, and Dean _hmm_ ’d in reply. “I don’t usually do this kind of thing on the first date. Just…so you know.”

“I must just be special,” Dean said with a smirk, beginning to feel absurdly sleepy. There were all sorts of goopy chick-flick things running through his mind, but he retained enough testosterone to keep them _inside_ his head where they belonged.

“You are,” Castiel replied, pulling Dean closer. He would indulge in some shameless cuddling, then he would get up and go home, Dean told himself. He wasn’t too proud to cuddle. Anyone who was honest with themselves would admit to liking the occasional cuddle, and Dean Winchester was no exception. He didn’t, however, plan on falling asleep on Cas’ chest, still on top of the blankets, feeling peaceful for the first time in far too long.

**_15\. Mirrored beams and dog-like stretch_ **

Castiel awoke disoriented. He was on the wrong side of his bed, with the comforter under him. Also, he was naked.

That realization brought the memories of the night before flooding back, a rush of warmth tinged with regret—not that it had happened, but how it had happened. Excepting those drug-muddled times, sex had always been something serious to him, not frivolous. He was simply that kind of man—emotional intimacy before physical. He was close to Dean, yes, but their relationship felt…unequal, Dean having shared nearly everything, while Castiel only gave out enough information to keep him appeased.

So he had wanted to fix that, to take it slow, and, hopefully to work through some of their issues before taking this step. And preferably, have it happen at a time when he wasn’t reeling and, if he was completely honest with himself, a little bit broken from having his strictly ordered life fall apart.

Still, he thought as he looked over at Dean, still sleeping, head turned toward him, lips parted to reveal perfectly white teeth, the curve of a golden shoulder, dappled with striated light filtering in through the blinds, he couldn’t bring himself to feel too bad about it.

Not bad at all. Castiel let his eyes trail down the rest of Dean’s body, the most relaxed he’d ever seen the man. He looked younger in sleep, and Castiel wondered if this is how he would look all the time had that man never killed his mother, if he had been able to have a normal childhood…

Dean shifted then, breaking his thoughts. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, luminous even with his face in shadow. He was beautiful, a perfect specimen of humanity, glorious inside and out. Castiel’s rising desire was as much a want to reach out and hold some of that light to himself as anything sexual.

“Hi,” he said thickly, smiling, turning onto his side and stretching, arms over his head, bracing his hands against the wall. Dean must have noticed the way that Castiel’s eyes were trained on him, glassy, pupils wide.

“Dean,” he said, raising himself and shifting to allow his torso over the other man’s. Dean grabbed him by his shoulder blades and pulled him down, chest to chest, before their mouths met, open, hot, lazy and dirty. The hands slipped from his shoulders, across his back, skimming his ass, and down to his hips, tugging, a not-so-subtle demand that Castiel move more fully on top of him. He complied, settling his hips between Dean’s thighs, eliciting a gasp from the man when his cock rubbed against Castiel’s.

Their kisses grew sloppier, deeper, broken by groans as Castiel ground against Dean, all coarse friction and need. It was enough, sending them both spiraling into sharp-edged pleasure, first Dean, then Castiel, spilling hotly over their stomachs. He slumped on top of Dean, unable to move for a long moment, while the rush faded from his body and the world righted itself. Eventually, he managed to roll off of him, and, moments later, right back into luxurious, gluttonous sleep.

The next time he awoke, the clock on the nightstand read 1:15. Castiel couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept this late. His eyes automatically fell to Dean, watching him in sleep again. He would have been happy to close his eyes again and join him in the comfortable darkness, but the more fastidious part of him was demanding a shower, and the more responsible part demanded that he try to clean up the less literal mess he had made of his life.

Reluctantly, he slid out of bed, rummaged for a change of clothes, and slipped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He stepped into the glass-walled shower stall and turned the water on, shivering at the initial icy shock before the hot water made it through the pipes. He didn’t linger. The day felt unreal, already. Sleeping past noon, waking with Dean beside him…no job to go back to. Still, he felt vaguely rushed, pressed for time, even though he knew that nothing warranted his attention that very moment.

Either way, he only stayed in the shower long enough to wash his skin and hair before shutting the water off, drying off and getting dressed.

When he quietly opened the door, he saw that Dean hadn’t appeared to have awoken, but he had shifted to take up the entire bed, somehow. It brought a small smile to Castiel’s face as he silently made his way to the door, unwilling to wake him. They needed to talk, badly, to resolve those lingering issues, but he was reluctant to disturb Dean when the man looked so peaceful. His own reticence and reservations, of course, had nothing to do with it.

The sound of a chirp and vibration got his attention as he wandered into the kitchen. A text. He determinedly looked away from it, instead fetching his aluminum foil and covering the pie from the night before, hoping that it was still good after sitting out for…he did a quick count in his head…seventeen hours. Then, he took a deep breath, and took a look at his mobile. Eighteen text messages. Twenty-three missed calls.

The first seven texts were from his sister. The next three were from Jimmy. The following five were _also_ from Anna. The other three were from Gabe, Mike, and Rafe. Evidently word of his fall had reached his family.

Jittery, anxious to get this over with, but also dreading it, he forced himself to go through the motions, preparing a pot of industrial-strength coffee by rote. As the scents of the brew began wafting around the room, he opened up the first message, from Gabriel.

 _‘Castiel you fucktard,_ ’ was all it said. He had a feeling that dear old Uncle Gabe would be stopping by for another of his ‘surprise visits’ soon. They were always excruciating.

Michael was more pragmatic, with a snarky, _‘Well, how you planning on getting out of this one?’_ Rafe left a threatening, _‘We will speak about this.’_

Of the three texts from Jimmy, two were disappointed but resigned, and the third was obviously from Claire, if the atrocious spelling and grammar was any judge. Anna’s texts started out with fury, several demands that he answer her calls, then changed to a more sympathetic tone. The last simply read, _‘He’d better be hot.’_

He didn’t smile. A sick feeling was beginning to bubble up in his stomach, and he knew that the coffee he’d just made would be going to waste after all. He didn’t think he could stomach another bitter brew, not when his was churning already. Here, away from Dean, he was again horrified at everything he’d done. Not only had he quit his job, but the route he’d taken in doing so had virtually guaranteed that his chances of ever returning to counseling work were nonexistent.

Grimacing, he stared at the grain of his table, beginning to feel physically ill from the coffee smell. Between talking to a lawyer and dealing with admin the day before, he hadn’t really had time to think about what his decisions meant, in terms of his life.

So he was free, and could legally be with Dean. And he had thrown away his career for that. Castiel had always liked to think he was more pragmatic than that—work over love. The thought had come up before, but finally, he indulged it. Was he really worth it? He traced the whorls in the pale wood with a fingertip, and found himself disturbingly unsure. In the prior weeks, he’d felt so certain, so vindicated in his knowledge that, _yes,_ Dean was worth everything he had to offer, and more.

But now that he’d given up so much, he was beginning to have second thoughts.

And yet, as he thought back, recalling everything from the first time he’d seen the man up until this morning, he couldn’t help but think that, given the opportunity, he’d do it all over again. He’d come a long way from being an obedient little soldier, blindly taking orders.

That, at least, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret.

He knew he was only staving off the inevitable when he closed his phone again, setting it back down on the table, then moving the napkin rack in front of it so he didn’t have to look at it. Still, he wanted some time to mentally prepare himself to deal with phone call after phone call, and Castiel wasn’t much of a phone person in the first place. He’d much rather meet everyone face to face, despite the inconvenience. But maybe he was just old-fashioned, in that regard.

It was also a conversation he didn’t want Dean walking into. They would insist on meeting him, that much Castiel was certain of. But not now, not yet. Not when everything was so fresh, and new, and still raw around the edges. They needed to solidify their places in each others’ lives before letting other people in, trying to define that space for them.

And that was _exactly_ the type of thing Castiel’s family would do—they all meant well, but a type A personality ran in the family—minus Gabriel—and they could all be control freaks—Gabriel included (Castiel would never forget the time Gabe forcibly covered his mouth with duct tape to give a lecture without any interruptions).

Still, since quitting his job, Castiel’s personal life had gone into stasis—family ignored, mail piling up, phone calls unreturned. He was hiding, fretting, wringing his hands. His commanding officer would have been disgusted with him. His father would have been ashamed.

He needed to crawl out of his shell again, face the consequences of his actions. He didn’t doubt for a second that they would be excruciating. Nevertheless, his savings account couldn’t handle his jobless state for too long—through the end of the summer if he was frugal—and Castiel didn’t want to ask any of his uncles for money. If all else failed, he could go to Jimmy, or Anna, but they were busy, and didn’t have much to spare.

There had to be something that he could do, was qualified to do with a doctorate in psychology. Other than counseling. He had rather taken that one out of the pool…voluntarily surrendering a license was barely a step up from having it taken forcibly, somewhat along the lines of, “You can’t fire me, I quit.”

And _that_ was going to look brilliant to potential employers.

He hadn’t realized exactly how long he’d been lost in thought until there was a knock on the wall behind him, startling him.

“You burn something?” Dean asked, when Castiel turned in his seat. He was wearing his clothes from the night before, hair damp, smelling of Castiel’s soap.

There _was_ a distinctly burned tinge on top of Dean’s scent. “That’s probably the coffee. It’s been on for…a while.”

“So, I probably don’t want to drink it?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“You okay, man?”

“Fine. Just…thinking,” Castiel said, not missing the quickly-covered worry that flared up in Dean’s eyes. “About work,” he added, clarifying. The worry changed to guilt, and he assumed that he was simply incapable of saying the right thing to Dean.

“Should I go?” he asked, somewhat subdued.

He hastily made up his mind. “No. I do need to take care of some things, but they can wait until after dinner.”

Dean smiled then, relaxing some, and taking the seat across from Castiel. “I just woke up, Cas. No breakfast?”

“It’s somewhere between lunch and dinner time, Dean,” Castiel said, unsure as to what Dean meant by that comment.

“All the more reason to have breakfast. Do you have bacon? I can fry up some awesome bacon. Oh! And your pie. That sounds like the breakfast of champions to me.”

Castiel smiled weakly. “There might be some in the freezer.” He made no move to get up, so Dean maneuvered around the table to get to the freezer, digging disgustedly through bags of frozen vegetables before finally finding a package of bacon.

“Dude, how long have you had this? Half of it has freezer burn.”

“I’m…not sure,” Castiel answered, eyeing the offending package as it was held up for his inspection.

Dean shrugged, setting it on the counter and opening cabinets, presumably searching for a frying pan. “Ah, well, you know, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and all that.”

Castiel mulled over that statement, finding it absurdly applicable to more than just questionable bacon. He only hoped that the both of them were able to come out of their own struggles stronger. Dean he had faith in. He wasn’t so sure about himself.

Nevertheless, as Dean reheated the pie and fried the bacon, amiably talking about whatever came to mind, and forcing Castiel out of his melancholy musings, he couldn’t help but think that maybe they would save each other. It didn’t have to just go one way.

**_16\. Shed the dulling armor plates_ **

Dean was studying when he finally heard from Sam again—actually, physically studying. He’d really only been half-serious about trying to go back to school. Sure, he’d wanted to, and he _had_ been putting aside money from working extra hours, but in reality, he never would have done anything on his own. But ever since he’d brought it up, Cas wouldn’t drop the idea, even conspicuously leaving study guides for the SAT and ACT at his apartment.

And he figured if he was going to do this, he’d do it the Dean Winchester way: all or nothing. So he’d opened the book, and attempted to learn. His first practice test had been abysmal, but it _had_ been a decade since he’d worried about math with letters, or words like _ephemeral_ or _anodyne_ or some other shit he swore the test writers made up just to be dicks.

Since then, he’d also acquired a dictionary, a thesaurus, and a decent calculator. Algebra still made him want to punch kittens, and the idea of reading stuffy classic literature still made his stomach turn, but, despite that, the change was pretty drastic.

He even started getting absorbed in the books—so much so that he started badly, flailing a little and throwing the one on-hand halfway across the room when his phone rang. Kansas was playing. That could only mean one thing…Sam. Nerves erupted in his stomach, but that didn’t stop him from half-diving across the couch to reach his phone as quickly as he possibly could.

“Hey,” he said lamely after accepting the call.

“Hey,” Sam replied, just as lamely, and, damn it, most of Dean was still furious with his idiot little brother, but hearing his voice for the first time in a month was the best thing ever.

“I, um,” he began, then sighed. “It’s good to hear from you, Sammy.”

There was a long pause. Then, miserably, he said, “You were right, Dean.”

“I was—what?”

“About Ruby. I can’t believe I fell for all the crap she spewed at me. I’m so _stupid,_ ” Sam said, sounding like a puppy that had been left outside in the rain. Normally, Dean would be crowing _I-told-you-so’s,_ but this was Sam, and instead he wanted to go kick some cheating bitch ass. No one hurt his little brother, even if his little brother was a huge idiot.

“Sam, do you want me to come over?” Dean offered tentatively. He knew Sam, knew that Sam _talked_ about things, and that he preferred to talk about things face-to-face, like the gigantic girl he was.

Sam sighed into the receiver, making the phone go static for a moment in Dean’s ear. “I don’t want to be here at all, actually.”

“Then…do you want to come over here?”

“Yeah…if that’s alright. I kind of really do,” Sam admitted miserably. Dean was absurdly reminded of tiny dorky Sam at age twelve, rejected by the first girl he’d gotten up the courage to ask out. Sam may tower over Dean now, but he’s always see his little brother as that short, sensitive kid, no matter what. And it was his job to protect him, to look out for him. No matter what.

“Of course it’s alright, Sammy,” Dean said, refusing to admit that he was getting sentimental.

“Thanks, Dean…I’ll see you,” and then the line went dead. There was a lot unsaid, the weight of their last exchange hanging in the air, but the Winchester brothers had already been through so much, Dean was optimistic that they’d get through this. Somehow.

It only took about ten minutes to get from Sam’s house to Dean’s apartment, and he used that time to make the place look presentable—picking up the fallen ACT book, cleaning the few dishes in the sink, putting his folded laundry away—smiling when he saw one of Cas’ shirts on top of a pile. His mind raced—he was nervous, still a little pissed, and feeling fucking _murderous_ toward Ruby, even though he didn’t know what she’d done, yet. He knew that she’d hurt Sammy, and that was enough. No one hurt Sammy without feeling the wrath of Dean.

The knock on the door startled him when it came, but he jumped up without missing a beat, opening the door where his freakishly tall moose of a baby brother was standing, looking every inch the hurt twelve-year-old he would always imagine him as.

“Sammy…it’s good to see you,” he said, stepping back to let him in.

“I missed you, Dean,” Sam said, closing the door behind him and pulling Dean into a hug, which he only _reluctantly_ returned, because he wasn’t a huge girl like Sam.

“Yeah,” was all Dean was able to say in reply, definitely _not_ because there was a lump in his throat.

Finally, Sam let him go, and he gestured them over into the living room, sitting on the couch while Sam took the chair, still looking unhappy.

When he spoke, it was like a dam breaking. “God, Dean, I am _so_ sorry. I should have listened to you—you had her pegged right from the beginning. I should have seen the signs, but I was too caught up in everything, and I’m so _stupid,_ Dean, so stupid.”

“Slow down, Sammy,” Dean said. “What happened?”

Sam’s jaw was clenched, his posture hunched over in the armchair. “When I woke up this morning, Ruby was gone. And so was my credit card, all my cash, and my car.”

Dean could feel his own face tighten, his teeth begin to grind. He wanted to track down the bitch and make her _pay._

Sam went on. “I spent all morning on the phone with my bank—she’s already racked up forty-five hundred dollars in charges, at what seems like every ATM in town… They’re trying to fix everything, and the police are on it, but they both said that the situation looks pretty grim.”

“That’s…awful,” Dean said, trying to control his outrage. He was certain that Sam could see it, though. He knew Dean as well as Dean knew him.

“Yeah. It is,” Sam agreed dejectedly. “But that isn’t the worst part.”

“What is?” Dean asked when he trailed off.

“I chose her over my own brother. Said some truly awful things to him—I can only hope he’ll forgive me one day.”

And, yeah, Dean could admit that he felt some truly _manly_ tears welling up. “I…I’m sure he already has,” he replied, and it was true. He couldn’t forget what had happened that night, but it didn’t matter the way it had in the previous weeks.

“I’ve regretted what I said to you every day. Even when I didn’t believe you…Still…”

“Sammy. It’s gonna be okay, okay? Besides, it’s not like I didn’t ditch you for girls when we were kids,” Dean said, and Sam smiled weakly, for just a moment, a crack in the ice of his misery.

“That’s different, Dean, and we both know it. But…thanks. And I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said again.

“But I really am sorry,” Sam repeated.

“Quit apologizing, Sammy. It’s okay,” Dean said, unable to help a grin.

“Sorry,” Sam said, then, “…Damn it.” He grinned, too, and Dean knew that, financial issues aside, he and Sam were going to be okay again. They always were, in the end.

“So, Dean,” he asked after a while, “Um, how have you been?”

He grinned again. “You mean in general, or my assortment o’ issues?”

“Um, in general. I wasn’t even thinking about…” The way Sam’s eyebrows rose indicated that he had completely forgotten Dean’s drinking problem. Dean couldn’t really blame him—he had a lot on his plate.

“Heh. Things are…weird,” he said, nodding slowly. “Weird. But…good weird.”

It was true—the studying aside, things had been weird. He had told Bobby why he wanted the extra hours at the garage, and when the gruff old man had processed that Dean was really, truly making an effort to improve his life, he had had to turn away, claiming to have ‘an eyelash or something.’ Sometimes Bobby seemed as much a father to him as John had ever been.

And then…Cas. Cas changed everything. They were far from perfect, but they were beginning to carve their spaces into the others’ lives, smoothing the rough edges away so that they fit. He had learned that real-person Cas wasn’t therapist Cas, that he had been holding back. He was bossy, pushy, more than a little impatient, and, honestly, Dean wasn’t sure how he functioned, having a stick so far up his ass it had to be interfering with brain activity.

But he was _Cas,_ the same guy who had seen him, really seen him, who knew his darkest moments, and who had never judged him, had only extended the hand of redemption. And that made any annoying personality traits, a marked lack of social skills, complete lack of pop-culture knowledge, and an absurd attachment to that hideous tan trench coat of his completely worth it.

And that was without sex added into the picture—after that first, desperate night, Cas had mentioned that he had intended to take things slow, that he was reserved, when it came to intimacy—he’d mentioned that when he’d been into drugs, it had been the opposite, and while Dean was appalled when Cas had red-facedly admitted attending a few orgies, he seemed determined to distance himself from the man he’d been then. Dean was okay with that—not like his right hand was going anywhere, and, after all, he hadn’t actually intended to jump straight into bed with Cas, either. Hookups were one thing, but relationships were meant to be taken slow. Not that Dean knew a lot about relationships, but, he was doing his best. So while they had spent a few nights together, in the past month, it had only been sleeping, kissing, and a lot of cuddling, and Dean liked waking up with Cas next to him, whether he got an orgasm out of it or not.

That didn’t stop him from thinking about it; hell, he hadn’t had to watch porn in months. The memory of Cas’ strangled half-moans, his voice gasping Dean’s name, that was enough for him. And he had a _good_ imagination. Cas had him fantasizing about things he’d never really even considered before, even after he’d mostly stopped denying to himself that he was at least a little into dudes. And as frustrated as he could get, wanting that, he was willing to wait, for Cas. He supposed that meant he had it bad. _Really_ bad. And it still scared him, a little, but…in a good way.

He wasn’t sure why he was reluctant to tell Sam… it was partially that he didn’t want to rub his mostly-awesome new relationship in his face. Also, he was certain that Sam would give him a variety of bitchfaces upon hearing that he was dating his ex-counselor. And there was a tiny part that was still enjoying how fresh and new things were with him and Cas, and that part didn’t want to share it with anyone. It was just for them.

Either way, he didn’t mention it. Not quite yet.

“Well, that’s remarkably uninformative, actually,” Sam said, but it was with good humor, or at least as much as he could muster.

“Yeah, well, that’s my life,” Dean replied with an easy shrug.

“But what about the…issues?” Sam asked, more softly. “How are you doing, there?”

He paused. “Better, now. A lot better.” It was true—he was going somewhere in life, and, now that Sam was back, a lot of the psychological need for it would be gone. The physical cravings were there, might always be, but he could handle that. And Cas was helping, sometimes too much—that was one area where his occasionally domineering personality really chafed Dean. He could actually handle his own problems. He didn’t need an angel perching on his shoulder. Then again, Cas kind of _had_ been there when Dean was at his worst—at least, his worst since his hospitalization. He could kind of see where he was coming from. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“That’s good…Ah, shit,” Sam said, as his phone started ringing. He checked the display screen. “Business calls…Do you mind if I get this?”

“Go ahead,” Dean said, gesturing his blessing. He grabbed the ACT book again and opened it to a random page, more pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping on Sam’s conversation than attempting to study. From the tone of his voice and the lines in his forehead, it wasn’t exactly promising.

After he had read the same page at least eight times, Sam finally said his ‘thank you’s’ and hung up, falling back into the chair with a sigh of exasperation.

“Banks. I hate them,” Sam said, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Anyway, what were we talking about?”

“Uh—my life, and how spectacularly uninteresting it is now that I’m not out boozin’ and cruisin’?” Dean offered, and his brother smiled weakly at that.

“Whenever your life is boring, I suspect that you’re hiding things from me.” He paused, looking up. “Like why you’re holding a study guide for the ACT?”

Dean looked down, having forgotten that he was still holding the book. “Oh, yeah, this old thing? No big deal. I’m just going back to school,” he said nonchalantly with a shrug. Sam’s jaw dropped and Dean could practically see his tail start wagging.

“No big deal?! Dean, that’s _great!_ What made you decide to go back?”

He thought very carefully about his answer—before deciding on the truth. “It was something Cas said…Actually, it was a _lot_ of things Cas said. Anyway, point is, I’m going to stop doing what Dad wanted me to do and do what _I_ want to do.”

For a second, he thought Sam was about to do something embarrassing, like cry, or hug him, but finally, he just smiled, and said, “That’s…That’s great.”

He smirked. “And about friggin’ time, too, right?”

“I wasn’t going to say it,” Sam admitted. “One of us has to have a sense of tact.”

“Hey! I have a sense of tact!”

“Yeah, you keep it right next to your sense of propriety,” he said with an eye roll and a fond bitchface (number 31). “Anyway, do you know what you’re going back for?”

He hesitated, suddenly embarrassed about revealing his two-year degree plan to his lawyer of a little brother. But, hey, what the hell. “I’m going to try to get certified as a paramedic.”

Sam kind of nodded and smiled absently, worrying Dean. Then, he looked up. “Oh! Sorry, I was just remembering how you’d always patch me up when we were kids. I always kind of secretly thought you’d make a great doctor.”

Dean laughed awkwardly. He’d never told Sam that for a while, that had been exactly what he wanted. “Sammy, the SAT confuses me. Can you really see me passing the MCAT?”

“Once you get caught up? Yeah, I can. I bet the only reason you’re finding that stuff hard is because you never tried in school. And also it’s been thirteen years.”

“Funny, that’s what Cas said, too…” He said, without thinking, and immediately wanted to bite the words back.

“So you’re still seeing Cas?” Sam asked, and, yeah, foot in mouth moment. Dean resisted the urge to clench his teeth.

“Uh, yeah. I’m seeing Cas,” he answered as vaguely and non-incriminatingly as possible.

Sam’s face fell, though. “I’m glad _someone_ was here for you.”

“Sammy. What did I say about apologizing?”

“I know, but—you’re still keeping things from me.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked with all the innocence he could muster.

“I _mean,_ why did Bobby have to call me the day after…yeah? You _never_ miss work.”

“Okay, Sam, new rule. You can apologize as many times as you like, but how about you quit with the personal questions and let me keep some semblance of privacy in my life? Got it?”

He threw his hands up in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay, fine. Sorry…”

“There we go. Easy as pie. Speaking of which, I’m starving. Wanna get some takeout?” Dean asked, managing to relax.

“Yeah, I could eat. Um, Thai?” Sam said, seemingly thrown by the abrupt shift in conversation.

Dean smiled in response and went to go find the right menu from the pile of them on top of his refrigerator. A moment later, the grin slid off his face. _Shit._ He was supposed to have dinner with Cas in a few hours—with Sam showing up, it had completely slipped his mind. He grimaced and furrowed his brow. He’d have to give Cas a call, reschedule. He didn’t want to, but…Sam.

Quickly, he grabbed a menu at random, surprised that it was the right one, and threw it in Sam’s general direction before stalking off to his bedroom.

“Where are you going?” He asked, leaning across the side of the chair, straining for the menu where it had fallen onto the floor.

“Gotta make a phone call. Don’t cry too much while I’m gone, Samantha.” Sam rolled his eyes and continued to reach, seemingly refusing to get up.

He was calling before the door shut all the way. Cas answered on the second ring.

“Dean,” he said by way of greeting, and fuck, yeah, he was more than a little gay, because he _loved_ the way his name sounded in Cas’ voice.

“Cas, hey,” he said.

“Is something wrong?” he asked in reply. He really read Dean too easily for comfort. But he couldn’t deny that secretly, he kind of liked that, too.

“Yes. Well, no. I mean, it’s not good, but it’s still kind of good—anyway, can we reschedule dinner?”

“What’s going on?”

He took a deep breath, unable to keep from smiling as he announced, “Sam’s here.”

“And I take it that’s going well?” Cask asked, his voice unreadable.

“Well, the bitch up and left him with his car and money, but me and him are okay again.”

There was a long silence. “Cas?” Dean prompted him.

“Don’t you think you’re letting him off kind of easy, considering what he said to you?” he replied, finally. Dean wasn’t sure to react. His initial instinct was to snap something back—no one, _no one,_ got to hate on Sammy while he was around. Then again, Cas was only angry because Dean had been hurt, and that made those gross girly feelings in him squirm gleefully. So he thought carefully before answering.

“I figure he’s been through enough, today…And besides, he’s my brother. There’s really nothing I wouldn’t forgive him for.”

“I know. I know,” he said gently. A pause, “And we can have dinner anytime.”

“You sure, Cas?” Dean asked.

“I understand how important your brother is to you.”

Dean couldn’t speak for a long time, absurdly working his jaw and trying to figure out how he got so lucky, ending up with a guy like Cas. “Thank you,” he managed, after a long time.

“I’ll speak with you later, then,” he replied, and hung up. Not one for long goodbyes, his Cas.

He locked his phone and pushed it back into his pocket, striding back into the living room to finish repairing his relationship with his little brother.

**_17\. Born inside the gates of the family_ **

Castiel was in a state of panic. This was not something that happened frequently, or, really, at all. Not unless his family was involved. And they were involved. They were very, very involved.

Gabriel was the only other Novak who lived in the area—in a larger town about thirty minutes away, and the others were scattered all over the country. Except that they weren’t. They were all coming to town under the guise of an “impromptu family reunion,” but Castiel _knew_ that it was a cover up for “tormenting the black sheep and his new boyfriend for whom he quit his respectable career.” It was rude and invasive and definitely an overreaction, and _exactly_ the kind of thing they would do. _Especially_ now, when he was stressed about a million other things—getting hired somewhere, _anywhere_ at this point not among the least of his concerns.

And they would be getting into town _tomorrow._ He didn’t bother protesting the indignity of it—his family didn’t work like that. Sure, they hadn’t done this when Jimmy had gotten serious about Amelia, but then, Jimmy had always been the perfect son—successful, if not too ambitious, a devout churchgoer, white-picket-fence type. No wars, no drugs, none of…everything that made Castiel himself.

Still, Castiel was expected to be there, and he was expected to bring his “young man,” as Michael had phrased it over the phone, the curling sneer obvious in his voice. He wasn’t sure how to break the news to Dean. A completely honest revelation would be, “Oh, hello, Dean, my family is in town and they insist on meeting you but don’t panic—you could act like Jesus and they would still judge you.”

There had to be a gentler way of approaching the subject than that. He briefly considered baking a pie, but decided against it. They were both adults. Bribery wasn’t the best option. Either way, better to get it out of the way as soon as possible. He found his phone, flipping it open and fumbling at the keys.

 _Dean,_  
                Are you occupied at the present time?  
                Castiel

The reply came about a minute later.

_No im not busy. Whats up?_

Castiel sighed, as usual, at Dean’s inability to text with correct grammar.

 _Dean,_  
                Would you be willing to come over? There is something I need to discuss with you.  
                Castiel

Instead of a reply, the phone rang no less than fifteen seconds later.

“Dean?” He began, but he was talked over.

“What did I do? That sounded suspiciously like a ‘we need to talk,’ and those conversations _never_ end well,” Dean said, sounding mildly frantic.

Castiel blinked. “You haven’t done anything, and I apologize for my phrasing. But I would like to discuss it in person, if that’s okay,” he said.

“At least tell me if it’s a good thing or a bad thing,” Dean said, more relaxed, but with trepidation still present in his voice.

Castiel considered. “I really should let you make that distinction. When can you be here?”

“I’m leaving now,” he said, and Cas could hear the faint jingle of a keyring.

The drive from Dean’s apartment to Castiel’s house took ten minutes, on average. Five minutes after they hung up, there was a knock on his door.

“It’s open,” he called casually, and immediately he heard the sound of someone entering. He had no doubt that it was Dean from the footsteps that approached, thundering, but somehow gingerly.

He sat down in the chair across the kitchen table from Castiel and asked, “You wanna tell me what’s going on, now?”

He sighed, swirling the dregs of his coffee. “My family is in town.”

“Um. Okay?”

“Let me finish. My family is in town—and they want to meet you.”

Dean blinked. “That’s a little soon, don’t you think?” And it was true—though neither of them was exactly sure when they had begun…whatever it was, it had still only been roughly two months ago.

“Well, yes, but, my family is…”

“Dude, don’t say your family is crazy. Everyone thinks that their own family is crazy.”

And Dean would know better than most about crazy families. “I wasn’t going to say crazy. I was going to say overbearing and generally full of assholes. I don’t get along with them, they generally don’t get along with me. Haven’t you wondered why I never go visit?” The panic was welling up again, causing the pitch and speed of his words to increase.

“Cas—it’s alright. I’ll…I’ll meet them, okay? I’ll even pull out my suit, and be on my best behavior,” Dean said, trying to calm him down.

“I’m glad you’re going willingly, because there is no avoiding them. I wouldn’t put kidnapping past Luke,” he admitted with a frown.

“C’mon…they can’t be _that_ bad…”

“Dean, you remember what I told you about my father, right?” When he nodded, Castiel continued. “Well, he may be dead, but my uncles are doing a damn good job filling his shoes. All four of them.”

“Oh. Um. I’ll be on my best behavior?” He offered again, and Cas smiled weakly into his cold, congealing coffee.

“Just…expect them to be rude. Subtlety is not a strong art in the Novak line.”

“Seriously, Cas. I’ll be Prince Charming. After all, don’t want them thinking you have bad taste. Anyway, when does this shindig go down?”

He grimaced, though, overall, this conversation was going much better than he’d expected. “Tomorrow night, at Gabriel’s house.”

He paled and might have flinched. “That’s uh…That’s a little soon, don’t you think?” He repeated with a weak laugh. Castiel didn’t return it.

“They didn’t want me to be able to find an excuse to not be there,” he admitted seriously.

“You know, they actually do kind of sound like a bunch of dicks,” Dean said after a long silence.

“Finally, you begin to understand,” Castiel said with a mock sigh, and he didn’t miss how the corners of Dean’s mouth quirked up at that—he always smiled whenever he proved he had a sense of humor. Nevertheless, he sobered. “There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to be just like them, to impress…well, my father, mostly, but them, too.”

“Well, thank god you got over that. Seriously, Cas—don’t ever change.”

“Thank you, Dean,” he replied, voice soft.

“What for?”

“You’ve…I’m much calmer now.” His hands were steady, his limbs less fidgety.

“Uhh—no problem. The calling-at-one-in-the-morning thing doesn’t just go for me, Cas,” Dean said, awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, and while it was endearing, Castiel was filled with horror.

“Tell me it isn’t actually one in the morning,” he demanded before looking at the clock for himself. It was, indeed, one fifteen in the morning. He groaned and leaned forward to rest his forehead on the table. “I should have been to bed _hours_ ago,” he complained into the wood surface.

Dean laughed lightly, and said, “Well, now that I know you’re not planning on dumping me immediately, should I go home?”

He hesitated, wavering, but stopped Dean before he was fully out of his chair. “Actually, stay?” It was the first time he’d _asked_ Dean to stay the night with him.

“I…have to work tomorrow morning,” he said regretfully, and Castiel nodded. “So don’t bite my head off when I have to get up early, okay?”

He smiled lightly, and pushed his chair back to stand up. “In that case, I believe I feel exhaustion overwhelming me.” It was a blatant lie—his earlier… _anxiety_ had left him as wide awake as a full pot of coffee would have.

Dean smiled in return. “Sure, Cas,” he said disbelievingly, but followed his lead, following him to the bedroom. When he had bought it, Castiel had thought that having such an absurdly large bed was pointless—he spent his nights alone, and didn’t move around much in his sleep. Now, though, he felt it one of the best purchases he’d ever made. Dean filled the void on the other side, made him feel like he wasn’t drowning alone in an endless sea of blankets. It was an odd metaphor, but he’d woken up once or twice, in the dead of night, and found himself thinking along that line.

Never when Dean was there, though. Unselfconsciously, he shucked off his shirt and jeans, and Dean did the same, leaving them both in just boxers. Under the blankets, he wrapped his arms around Castiel from behind, pulling their bodies together until they were touching from shoulders to feet, legs tangling casually. Castiel relaxed against him, comfortable, cherishing this human closeness. A few seconds passed, and he felt the press of lips to the back of his neck, from the knob of his spine up into his hair. He made a small pleased sound and turned his face.

Dean’s mouth trailed over, breath ghosting in his ear, making Castiel shiver, before travelling over his jaw line and finally reaching his own lips. They moved together, soft, yielding. The angle was bad, so he shifted a bit so that his shoulders were flat on the bed, Dean leaning over him. He opened his mouth, felt Dean’s tongue brush his own, and shivered. He wanted Dean, had never stopped wanting him, despite his secret oath that he would respect himself enough to take things slowly in a relationship—especially one that mattered. But Dean was beautiful, a good man, burning a little brighter than most. His eyes spoke the volumes his mouth wouldn’t reveal, his lips were almost too perfect to be real, and Castiel just loved every feature on his face, every line of his body. The light splash of freckles that had appeared on his face as the days lengthened into high summer, the bow-legged way he walked, as if his knees had never met. Castiel _wanted_ him, wanted him on top of him, under him, around him, inside of him.

The thought of their bodies coming together was almost enough to make him give in, fueled by memories of that first night they had been together, desperate, passionate abandon. The ghosts of sensations trailed over his skin, images flashing in his mind’s eye, broken like recollections of a fever dream. It was almost enough to convince him to take the next step, see if Dean was ready, but he remembered that he would be seeing his _family_ in less than twenty-four hours, and the _last_ thing he needed was an afterglow.

Another night, then, he thought, pulling away from Dean with a last lingering kiss and leaning back against his chest again. Another night. Soon.

**_18\. Held inside the family gathering_ **

He immediately felt guilty for thinking it, but Cas was a little bit adorable when he was on the verge of panic. Whereas Dean tended to yell and stomp around and shut everyone out when he was stressed, Cas rushed around in full OCD-mode, making sure every little thing was just _so._ Honestly, Dean would have found it fucking annoying if he wasn’t so goddamn earnest about it.

Plus, he couldn’t deny that it was nice to see Cas in those well-fitting suit trousers again.

If he were to be really honest with himself, though—something that Dean tried to avoid on principle, but, hey—he’d admit that he was looking for distractions, that Castiel’s family vaguely terrified him, for all that he hadn’t met any of them.

Michael, apparently, was some CEO in New York state, Raphael a high-ranking FBI officer and ex-army ranger, Lucifer—Luke, _Luke_ —the owner of a large pharmaceutical corporation, and Gabriel a television executive. By the way Cas’ voice had gone tight and reluctant at the last one, Dean rather suspected that Gabe actually owned a porn studio. Anna and Jimmy had more, well, normal careers, but still, Dean couldn’t help but feel threatened. He was a mechanic with a GED—how could he hope to make a good impression on people like that (porn studio ownership aside)?

It was almost as disturbing how much he _wanted_ to make a good impression. Really, on the one hand, he was Dean Winchester, he did what he wanted, and fuck you, but on the other hand, and only because he was being honest with himself…Cas meant a lot to him. And Dean, more than most, understood the importance of family. Would he dump Cas if Sam absolutely hated him? Well…he’d certainly evaluate their relationship pretty harshly.

Sam. That was _another_ thing he was dreading. He couldn’t put off telling his little brother about him and Castiel for much longer.

Still, there wasn’t much time to worry about that, because Dean was tying Castiel’s tie, and they were both buttoning up their jackets—it was time to go. Cas was fidgeting and twitchy, so unlike his typical stoicism, and, wow, could they really be _that_ bad? Maybe Dean wasn’t nervous _enough._ And with that unpleasant thought, he put the key in Baby’s ignition, and took off from Cas’ house.

They made the drive in silence, but about ten minutes in, Castiel took Dean’s hand in a death grip and didn’t release it until they pulled into the—obscenely huge, ostentatious, pretentious-as-fuck—gated community where Gabriel’s house was located. His circulation finally returned when he put the Impala in park in front of an equally pretentious-as-fuck house of river stone. His baby looked out of place amidst the BMWs, the Mercedes, the Porsches. Kind of like him.

He looked over, and Cas smiled weakly at him. At least he wasn’t alone.

They both hesitated a long while before Dean, resolute, opened his door and got out, Cas following suit less than a second later.

The front door to the house opened before Castiel managed to ring the doorbell, and the man standing in the threshold was wearing an expensive _white_ suit and the sort of smarmy smile that stunk of money and self-importance. Dean immediately disliked him.

“Pretty boy, you made it,” the man said, gesturing widely.

“Gabriel,” Cas said coolly, inclining his head a fraction of a degree.

Gabriel craned his neck to see Dean, standing behind Cas. “And look! Your boyfriend’s even prettier than you are—but let’s hope he’s not as dumb as he looks. Yeah, I’ve heard _all_ about you, Dean-o.”

Dean gritted his teeth, remembering Cas’ advice that everything would be easier if he were to completely disregard everything Gabriel said. He was making it difficult, though. “Nice to meet you too,” he managed at long last, not missing the relieved glance Cas sent his way.

“Well trained, too!” Gabriel exclaimed with an unctuous smile. “Come on in then, nephew and plus one. Everyone else is in the den.”

Gabriel turned around and walked into the depths of the house—mansion, really—leaving the door open for Dean and Castiel to follow. They trailed Gabriel at a distance, up a spiral flight of mahogany stairs and down a hallway that opened up into a room with ceilings so high that a herd of giraffes could fit comfortably inside. He was reminded disturbingly of the one Catholic church he’d ever been in, when he was thirteen and he and Sam had gotten lost on their way back to the motel of the week. The priest had been a grouchy old man who had only let them grudgingly stay until they could get a ride back. He felt the same sort of unwelcome emanating from this room, even though the people assembled within had smiles on their faces—to varying degrees.

Cas had given him a rundown of the family, pictures included. He could remember their names, at least. Jimmy was, obviously, the one who looked just like Cas, except somehow completely different. Same blue eyes, same hair, but Jimmy’s stare was sort of languid and open, rather than Castiel’s hard and focused. By his side was a woman—Amelia, with a girl between them—Claire. Gabriel had taken a spot leaning against the wall next to a man with blond hair and deep set eyes—that would be Lucifer, whom he must never call that. _Luke._

On the other couch was a woman with pretty red hair. Cas’ sister, Anna. Out of everyone, her smile seemed the most genuine. Next to her was a dark-skinned man. Cas’ as-it-turned-out _adopted_ uncle Raphael. He wasn’t smiling at all. Neither was the remaining man, sitting in a deep armchair, with dark hair like Cas’, but deep black eyes. Michael.

“Well, Castiel, gonna introduce your new boy-toy or what?” Gabriel prompted him after Dean had taken everything in.

Cas seemed to snap out of a daze. “Oh—yes. Uncles, sister, brother…Amelia, Claire, this is Dean Winchester. Dean, my family.”

“Ah—hi,” he said lamely, uncomfortable with so many eyes on him.

There was another silence, and he felt judged like he’d never felt judged before. Luke was the one to break it this time. “Well, I’d ask how you two met, but I’m afraid we’ve already heard the story.”

“Yes, I hope you’re worth a medical license and a respectable career,” added Raphael, in case Luke had been too subtle. The look on the man’s face said that he highly doubted it.

Well, that confirmed the judgment. Dean grimaced, unsure of what to say. Cas’ face was guarded, but his jaw was tight, clenched. He was reminded of Sam’s last few years before leaving for Stanford—constantly clashing with John, Dean mediating between the two of them, listening to each vent their frustrations about the other. He’d always wanted to reply, but he never had. It would have only made the situation worse.

Gabriel gestured at the remaining empty loveseat and said, “Well, you gonna hover in the doorway or sit down?” Stiffly, he followed Cas and took the seat next to him. His knuckles were white where they immediately clutched at the arm. He wasn’t any more relaxed himself.

After a moment, Anna leaned forward and smiled. “Hi, Dean. _I’m_ glad I get to meet you, despite what my uncles have to say.” Dean smiled in return, weakly, glad for the reprieve. “Your family must seem nice compared to us, huh?”

 _We may have been dysfunctional as hell, but at least we didn’t have entire trees up our asses,_ he wanted to say. “Ah. It certainly seems…small, now,” he said instead.

“Oh?”

“It’s…just my brother and me, now,” he said weakly.

“I’ve heard of his brother,” Luke added, looking around and shrugging. “Lawyer, damn good one too if my…sources are correct.”

“You trying to recruit him for that company of yours?” Michael asked, speaking for the first time. Luke made a face—Cas said that they hadn’t gotten along well.

“So what if I am? Could always use a good legal representative.” Dean bristled—he didn’t like the sound of that, Luke trying to…obtain his brother, like Sam was a piece on a chessboard. “Anyway,” Luke went on, “Weren’t we talking about the elder Winchester. You know—the one who doesn’t have the law degree. Or, well, _any_ degree.”

He bit the inside of his cheek—hard. _This is Cas’ family—do not fuck this up,_ was running though his head, a mantra.

“Dean was too busy making sure Sam was able to succeed to focus on his own life,” Cas said lowly, his voice a growl, but every eye in the room was trained on him. “He all but raised his brother, is the one responsible for how he turned out. It’s more than you would have done in his situation, _uncle._ ” Dean’s jaw dropped, cheeks going embarrassingly hot. He didn’t need to be defended like that—and some small, petty part of him resented it just a little bit, but at the same time, it was…touching.

“Whoa, touchy,” Luke replied affably, unaffected by the daggers Castiel was glaring at him. “You don’t need to make excuses for your boyfriend.”

Unbelievably, Castiel tensed even further, but his mouth remained shut, even though Dean could see how much strain was in his jaw, keeping it closed. So, protective Cas. Apparently a thing. A pinch of disturbing, a splash of embarrassing, with a generous serving of holy fuck that’s kind of hot.

He looked around quickly. _Totally_ the wrong place to be thinking such things. Nonetheless, despite the staring thing that appeared to be an inherited trait, there didn’t seem to be any mind readers in the room.

“So,” Gabriel asked after a moment of haughty silence, and Dean just knew he was going to say something douchey, “You raised your brother, cool. How’s that working out with the alcoholism?”

Castiel barked out a harsh, “Gabe!” as Dean put on his brightest front, his most false smile, and said, at the same time, “Peachy, thanks.” Inside, he was fuming.

“You know,” Luke said lazily, “I read recently that something like three fourths of all alcoholics relapse within two years. How about them odds, Dean?”

“I actually think I can handle it,” Dean said, striving for something vaguely _close_ to civility. It wasn’t going to last long.

Gabriel laughed, and replied, “You know, I can kind of see what attracts my nephew to you, Dean-o. You’re just like him, ten years ago. Only a lot less…what’s the word I’m looking for?”

“Emo?” Raphael said in a rumble, not bothering to look up from where he was picking at his nails.

With an exaggerated expression of consideration, Gabriel eventually shrugged. “Not what I was thinking, but it works. A lot less emo and a lot more…butch.”

A sidelong glance at Cas showed that they were both uncomfortable, one of his hands still gripping the couch tightly, the other wrapped protectively around his midsection. Suddenly, Dean’s anger evaporated into hopeless misery, and he _hated_ seeing Cas the same way. And when he thought of what Cas had told him, about coming off the drugs, about his attempted suicide—Dean’s stomach leapt in horror even thinking about that—he got angry again. How could they make light of their nephew’s problems like that? What kind of family were they? Before he knew what was happening, the words were spilling out of his mouth.

“Look, guys, say whatever you want about me. I probably deserve that and more. But don’t talk trash about Cas—not to me.” He managed to shut up there, but there was so much more running through his head. _He’s been to the wire for me, he’s seen me at my worst, he’s the one who saved me, and none of you were there for him. He’s gone through all of this shit already—but he had to do it on his own. He’s strong. You shut the fuck up about him._

Gabriel threw his hands up. “Easy, lover boy. It’s all in good fun between a nephew and his favorite uncle.”

Dean didn’t answer, kept his head held high, looked straight at Gabriel. 

“Alright, alright, _geez._ I get it. No more fun at _Cas’_ expense.” He and Castiel both frowned at Gabriel’s use of the nickname. It kind of warmed Dean, as did his victory. He had a feeling that it would really only make the night harder for him, though.

And he was right. The Novak family was paramount when it came to snide remarks. Still, in between blows to his ego, he learned a disturbing amount about the family. Jimmy was a tax accountant, and had never been close to Cas, despite their sharing the same womb for nine months. Anna—which turned out to be short for Anael—was a painter, moderately famous for her unusual renderings of angels. Michael was possibly the most domineering, douchetastic person he’d ever encountered. Raphael and Castiel apparently did not speak to one another. At all. Luke was downright terrifying. And his earlier impression that there was absolutely no filter between Gabriel’s brain and his mouth was confirmed—several times. Also, he _did,_ in fact, own a porn studio. The rights to the entire _Casa Erotica_ saga? Owned by Gabriel Novak. Finally, and while it was more implied than outright stated, the oldest of the brothers, Castiel’s father, was not to be mentioned. Ever.

Nevertheless, the absolute greatest impression he got was that the Novak family was full of assholes.

Apparently, even they agreed.

Gabriel and Luke had been arguing over…something pointless, in Dean’s opinion; he had tuned out about two minutes previously. At least it wasn’t another discussion (which had quickly turned into a bet) on how long it would take Dean to go back to drinking.

Finally, Gabriel threw his hands up and declared, “You know what, Luci? You’re my brother, and I love you, but you are a great big bag of dicks.”

Dean’s jaw dropped, and he looked around nervously, seeing if Gabriel was about to get…smote or something, but no one else looked concerned. Then, an honest to god butler walked in, uniform and everything, and diffused the tension by announcing that “dinner was served in the west dining hall.”

The west dining hall. Did that mean there was more than one? Dean didn’t even have a kitchen table. Rich family. Rich assholes. He grimaced, wishing beyond hope that he and Cas could just _leave._ Castiel wasn’t any happier than he was, even if he hadn’t had another outburst. Hadn’t said much of anything, actually. One or two words answers, and only then when asked a direct question that couldn’t be answered with a nod or a shake of his head.

Everyone stood, and Dean awkwardly joined them, hanging back a moment to walk with Cas, though, who was taking his time. However, the moment they were alone in the room, Castiel spun Dean around to face him and pulled _hard_ on the collar of his suit jacket, not so much kissing him as blindly smashing their faces together.

After a while, he broke off, asking, “Not that I’m complaining, but what was that about?”

“I…what you said earlier. No one’s ever stood up for me like that.”

“You did the same for me, literally minutes before,” Dean reminded him. Castiel looked down, and Dean appreciated being those few inches taller than the other man—his face, shadowed, blue eyes downcast through his lashes, was a gorgeous sight, making his stomach clench in the same way it had when Cassie had first agreed to go on a date with him.

“But you deserve it,” Castiel murmured.

“Hey, hey, Cas. Look at me,” Dean said in reply, raising a hand to gently run his fingers over Castiel’s jaw and cheek as he slowly raised his head. “What I said about not talking trash about you? You don’t get to do it either. Especially not to me—after everything you’ve done.”

There was a moment when an odd tension grew between them—not a bad one, not even close, the same sort of thrill that Dean used to get at bars when a girl asked him back to her place. Blue met green, and Cas’ mouth fell open like he was going to say something.

The moment was cut short, though, by Gabriel popping back into the room, causing Castiel to step back quickly and close his mouth with an audible _click_. “Hey, Castiel, Dean-o, dinner’s gonna get cold—aww, isn’t that _cute!_ Love is in the air!” he chirped, gleefully smug.

“Yeah, and my foot’s about to be up your ass,” Dean growled before remembering himself. Cas’ eyebrows drew together, and Dean gritted his teeth and braced himself to apologize, but Gabriel barked out a laugh.

“Well, he certainly does talk back! I gotta admit, Castiel, I _do_ like this one, everything aside. Much better than the last one you brought home—what was it, eight years ago? She was a prissy little bitch _._ What was her name again? Rebecca? No, that’s not it…Oh, yeah, Rachel!”

“Gabe.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Is that how you talk to your favorite uncle?”

“You’re only my favorite because your brothers are somehow even worse than you,” Cas retorted, voice sounding like gravel.

“Harsh! I’m wounded! Anyway, dinner, chop chop.”

“So, Rachel,” Dean said, once he was certain that the mood from before Gabriel’s sudden appearance was gone for good.

“Dean,” Cas said warningly.

“Seriously—eight years?”

“I _don’t_ want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Dean said, managing a grin before remembering that he’d have to go to dinner and face everyone again. The smile slid off his face like rancid oil. “Should we go?”

Cas sighed. “I suppose we must.”

**_19\. Charging down the maw of the ocean_ **

The car was rife with tension on the way back, of an entirely different sort than the kind which had filled it on the drive to Gabriel’s house. That had been nerves, if not outright fear, this was lingering glances, widened pupils, hitched breaths, hands resting on thighs, unspoken promises.

It was no surprise to either of them when they fell on each other as soon as the door to Castiel’s house was shut. There was no shyness, no holding back, a rough, almost violent clash of lips, teeth, Dean spinning him until he was pinned against the door. He grabbed Dean’s hips, pulled him in, obscenely close, and _yes,_ this was exactly what he had wanted, he thought as he let out a groan.

Dean leaned back with a smirk, but Castiel wasn’t having any of that. A growl in his throat, he grabbed his tie and dragged the man forward again, too roughly, their teeth clacking together, and it hurt, but when Dean’s tongue met his half a moment later, he didn’t care at all. He was a quick study: even with Castiel’s (absurd, really, now that it was actually _happening)_ no intimacy rules, he had managed to figure out what made him tick, what made him writhe and moan.

And, _yes,_ his entire body was pressed against the door, and Dean’s knee was easing his thighs apart, hot and hard against his hip already, and Castiel let out a sound caught between a groan and a sigh, quickly swallowed by Dean’s lips. Castiel’s hands, seeking more friction, slipped from his hips to grip Dean’s ass, which, really, looked fantastic in his suit trousers, but would look _and feel_ about a million times better without them. Dean’s hands tightened in his hair, pulling _just_ enough to feel amazing, and dear _god,_ why had he waited for this?

 Their breath was coming more quickly now, skin flushed, and when he pulled back to pant for breath, Dean’s pupils were blown wide, a thin ring of green outlining black.

“Dean, bedroom. Now,” he said, voice low, sandpaper over gravel.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean said, stepping back, and Castiel burned from the cessation of contact, the cold air rushing into the space between them.

He had a strong feeling that they weren’t going to make it to the bedroom.

It was harder than he remembered, to walk and kiss someone at the same time, eyes closed, legs getting tangled, hands wandering over bodies, occasionally thrown out for support against a wall, or the floor lamp that ended up horizontal moments later. Suit jackets were thrown haphazardly onto the floor, one of Castiel’s buttons popped off and flew across the room. It was a good thing his house was so bare, or more than the lamp would have hit the floor, he thought abstractly, everything but _heat_ and _touch_ seeming fuzzy and distant. When he stepped backwards into the pile of books by his chair, though, sending the books into a scattered heap, and falling over the arm of the chair, he decided to go with it.

Pulling at Dean’s tie again, he managed to situate them so that Dean was over him, straddling his thighs, Castiel’s hand on the back of his neck, mouths clashing, hot, open, fierce. Dean’s palmed Castiel’s erection, and Castiel threw his head back, making it bounce off the chair’s cushioned back, hand slipping from his neck to clutch at his shoulder.

“Oh, Dean,” he whispered, vocal chords unresponsive.

“Cas,” he murmured, lips brushing Castiel’s ear, making him shiver, “Want you to fuck me.”

Castiel opened his eyes then, every cell in his body responding to those words, primal instinct screaming, _take, take, mine, mine._ Instead, he said, voice unsteady, “You’ve never…”

“I’m aware, believe it or not,” Dean said, leaning back.

“Are you s—“ he began, but Dean cut him off.

“I swear to god, Cas, if you’re about to ask me if I’m _sure…_ ” Castiel silenced him with an open-mouthed kiss, newfound urgency in the movement between them.

Reluctantly, he pulled away. “Do you have—“ he started to ask, but Dean nodded his understanding.

“Yeah—in my wallet,” he answered, throwing a glance at where his suit jacket had fallen against the wall.

An insurmountable amount of time passed, though, before he managed to get up, both of their shirts completely undone, Castiel’s tie hanging loose around his neck, Dean’s having fallen over the arm of the chair. It was almost physically painful to stop touching Dean, rubbing, grinding, dirty, and with frantic intent. Castiel wanted to whimper at the loss of contact, when Dean finally pulled off with an unhappy groan, but he bit it back, a part of him grateful. He was closer than he should have been, really, given that his pants were still on, and he was decades past the age where that sort of thing was excusable.

Trying to summon up the least erotic thoughts he could muster, he made his way to the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. His family’s truly abhorrent behavior at dinner, yes, _that_ was doing the trick. Not bothering to flip the light on, he opened the cabinet under the sink and began rummaging behind the stacks of towels and extra toiletries, searching for—there. It was half-empty and at least a year old, but lube was lube, Castiel supposed.

“Cas?” Dean called a moment later, and he straightened.

“Bedroom,” he replied, closing the door to the bathroom behind him, setting the bottle on the nightstand, and flipping the lamp on as Dean walked in, looking gloriously debauched, shirt gone now, belt and button undone on his trousers.

His entire family could have been in the next room and it wouldn’t have made him want Dean any less, right that second.

Shrugging out of his own button-up, leaving it forgotten on the floor, he stalked up to Dean, and kissed him harshly, wrapping a hand around to the back of his head to hold him in place. Dean put up a cursory resistance to this, placing his hands on Castiel’s chest and fighting for dominance for a moment before dropping the act, opening his mouth to be plundered, and pulling Castiel closer instead.

When Dean’s legs hit the mattress, Castiel pushed gently on his shoulders, but Dean fell backward, seemingly boneless, making the bed bounce invitingly. This submissive side of Dean was unexpected, but something dark and visceral in Castiel responded eagerly to it, covering the man’s body with his own, pressing them together, skin on skin, cloth-covered erections grinding against one another. Soft, panting moans filled the room, and Castiel wasn’t sure who they came from, himself, Dean, both of them. The only thing he knew for certain was that it was high time that pants came off. He wasn’t going to last as it was, any more foreplay and it would hardly be worth the buildup.

 Getting up onto his knees he pulled at Dean’s belt loops, and getting the hint, he arched up off the bed so Castiel could pull his trousers and boxers down, swollen cock springing free. Dean kicked his pants the rest of the way off while Castiel began working on his own belt, pausing to bat Dean’s hands away when he tried to help.

When they were fully unclothed in the soft lamplight, he couldn’t help but ask, “Dean, are you sure you want this?”

“Damn it, Cas, what did I say about asking me if I’m sure?” Dean said crankily, and Castiel wasn’t sure if it was at the question or the delay. “Just get inside me already,” he added after a moment, and Castiel decided that the answer was probably _both._

“Not quite so fast,” he murmured in reply, reaching for the bottle on the nightstand and wrapping a hand around it to warm it. Despite his words, Dean was a little nervous, Castiel could tell. In all honesty, he was, as well. He truly hadn’t been with anyone in eight years, and even longer since he had been with another man. He definitely didn’t want this to be a bad experience for Dean.

“Cas, you waiting for Christmas?” Dean asked and Castiel snapped out of it, flipping open the bottle of lube.

“No,” he growled, liberally coating his fingers. He replaced the bottle and hooked his free arm around Dean’s leg and hefted it up. His other hand trailed down, over Dean’s cock and balls, experimentally circling his hole without any pressure.

“You’ve got to relax, Dean,” he murmured, leaning down to press his lips to Dean’s, a chaste gesture, completely at odds with everything else.

A moment’s hesitation. “Yeah, Cas,” he replied. Still more nervous than he was admitting. Castiel frowned slightly, pulling back, brows drawn together.

“You can tell me to stop any—“ He began.

“Just _go,_ Cas,” Dean said, impatiently pushing back against his finger. He didn’t respond verbally, instead opening his mouth to Dean’s as he slipped a finger inside him. He tightened, tensing up at the feeling, but Castiel whispered, “Relax,” and kissed him again, and Dean nodded, forcibly easing his body.

After a few minutes of this, Castiel crooked his finger, taking a few tries, but he assumed he had hit the right spot when Dean suddenly leaned up on his elbows and all but shouted, “Jesus fucking Christ!”

Castiel only smiled faintly, and added another finger, slowly scissoring them, stretching as patiently as he could stand, hitting his prostate _just_ often enough to keep Dean panting and moaning, rather than focused on the discomfort.

A third finger, and finally, Dean grabbed onto Castiel’s shoulder and said, “Come _on,_ Cas, I’m ready, and _do not ask me if I’m sure.”_

Castiel bit back his next words, which were going to be just that, and instead just nodded. He reached for the foil packet Dean had left on the nightstand and tore it open with shaking hands. He rolled it on perfunctorily, not even _trying_ to be sexy about it, anything just to finally get on with it, to feel Dean around him. Dean, meanwhile, grabbed the bottle of lube and poured some into his hand, stroking Castiel’s erection a few times to cover it, making him gasp and shudder at the touch. He wasn’t going to last very long at all.

He lined himself up with Dean’s hole and looked to Dean for confirmation. The impatient expression was all he needed, and he pushed in slowly, muscles straining from resisting the instinct to slide in hard and fast, to take Dean, claim him. There was an intake of breath from Dean when Castiel was in as far as he could go, and he opened his eyes, looking down at Dean, whose face was a bit pinched.

“Dean?” he asked breathlessly, already desperate to move.

“I’m okay, Cas, just give me a minute,” he said.

It couldn’t have been very long, but it seemed an eternity until Dean nodded and murmured something incomprehensible, but definitely containing the word, “move.” Shaking with the strain of _not_ moving, Castiel complied immediately, sliding out almost all the way, and then back in, not as slowly this time. Dean let out a grunt, but not a pained one, and wrapped his legs around Castiel’s waist to give him better access. He set a rhythm, increasing in intensity, a crescendo of bodies entwined, breathing harshly over Dean, occasionally leaning down to press their open mouths together.

He changed the angle of his thrusts and Dean’s eyes flew open. “Oh, god, Cas,” he said in a moan, rocking back to meet him, now, Castiel hitting his prostate nearly every time. He was _close._ Bracing himself with one arm, he wrapped a hand around Dean’s cock and starting stroking in time with his thrusts.

“Cas,” he said, “I’m gonna—“

“Come for me, Dean,” Castiel said, and Dean immediately arched up off the bed, shooting across his stomach and chest with a low groan, body clenching around Castiel. He stroked Dean through his orgasm, on the brink of his own. With one final push, he thrust into Dean as deep as he could go, body shuddering with waves of pleasure and vision going fuzzy as he came, hard. A few more shallow thrusts, and he pulled out completely, absently tying off the condom and throwing it onto the floor. He slumped, half collapsing to lie half-beside, half-on top of Dean.

“That was—” he began, but Castiel cut him off.

“I love you,” he blurted out, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. It was too much, too soon, even though that didn’t make it any less true. But he didn’t apologize, didn’t try to take the words back. They were already there, never to be unsaid.

Dean didn’t reply, instead putting his arms around Castiel and holding him close. It was still more than he expected.

**_20\. Called out in the wake of a lottery_ **

The sound of Castiel’s cell phone woke Dean, the sound coming from somewhere past the foot of the bed. It was definitely fuck-this-shit o’clock, but Cas was nevertheless whining pitifully and rolling out of bed to go see who was calling. With one eye open, Dean watched him check the caller ID, clear his throat, and flip the phone open.

“Hello?” He said, almost sounding like he hadn’t just woken up after a night of really awesome sex. Dean could feel his eyes glazing over with the memory, ghosts of sensation fluttering over his skin.

“Yes, this is Dr. Novak,” Cas said after a moment, and Dean woke up a little further. Hopefully this was a job interview—he knew how hard Cas had been trying, submitting his CV to every university in the country, it seemed. He didn’t want to consider the implications of that, that Cas might have to move away, but he was trying for his dream job, and that was _important._ He had confessed to Dean, not even a week prior, that he hadn’t really liked counseling, for all that he’d been good at it. That he was glad he’d turned in his license and burned that bridge. He couldn’t take the easy way out and go back to it.

That didn’t stop it from being one more thing Dean felt guilty about, though. And yet, despite everything, Castiel…

There was a flutter in his stomach and a vaguely uncomfortable feeling entirely separate from the vague _physical_ discomfort he was also feeling.

Those three words. He needed to…not think about that. Instead, he focused intently on the side of the conversation he could hear, trying to glean some news. Castiel’s voice was neutral, professional like the man he had known half a year ago, before their relationship became…personal. His face didn’t betray anything either, and the words were equally unhelpful, occasional agreements.

Finally, “Yes, I am available the week of the tenth,” he said, and Dean’s eyebrows raised.

There were a few more pleasantries and thank-you-for-your-times before Castiel hung up.

The first thing Castiel said was, “I never want to have a conversation like that ever again unless I’m wearing clothes.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh. “Good news?” he asked.

Cas nodded. “I have an interview on the thirteenth of July.”

“That’s great, Cas,” he said sincerely, finally rolling onto his back and sitting up. He was covered in dried spunk, gross. “Where at?”

Cas said the name of the university, and Dean’s eyes widened. Not only was it only about an hour away, it was also the same college that Dean was planning on applying to.

“That’s…” he trailed off, unable to find a suitable adjective for “good,” even with all the new words he’d learned for the SAT.

Cas looked at him for a long while, then smiled, as wide as he’d ever seen. “I know.”

Castiel set his phone down and got back on the bed with Dean, looking happy and absolutely wonderful, hair mussed, a bite faintly purple where his neck met his shoulder. Cas shouldn’t be allowed in public under normal circumstances, Dean thought, but especially not that morning, when every inch of him screamed that he had gotten laid.

Dean was sure he didn’t look any better, though. He turned his head toward Cas, who had the same idea, meeting him halfway in a slow, open-mouthed kiss.

“Do you have to work today?” Castiel asked, pulling back.

“No, it’s my day off,” Dean replied, leaning in to press his lips to Cas’ jaw. “But I agreed to meet Sam for dinner.” A pause. “Would you like to come?”

Cas looked at him seriously. “Do you want me there?” He asked, but Dean saw through the question: _would Sam want me there?_

“I think it’s high time he met you. You know, officially,” Dean said, nodding. Sam had figured out that Dean had something going on with someone, though he hadn’t gotten any details, no matter how many bitchfaces he put on, or how many passive-aggressive comments he dropped. Dean had to admit that he was kind of enjoying frustrating his baby brother.

Still. If he had met the Novaks (horrible memory, really; he was already actively trying to repress it), he thought it would be fair if Cas met Sam. Well, other than for those few minutes he’d blundered into Castiel’s office that one time.

But first, a shower was in order.

“So, have you heard we’re officially in a drought?” Dean asked casually.

“Yes, Dean, we can shower together,” Castiel replied, seeming to read his mind.

The water was running cold and the drought no doubt exacerbated by the time they finally left the bathroom, Dean heading home after agreeing to call Castiel with dinner plans. He remembered, now, exactly why he _loved_ shower sex. Plus, Castiel’s shower was _made_ for fucking in—there was really no other excuse for its size. He smiled, idly, gripping the wheel of the Impala tighter. It was weird to think that he was at least five-hundred percent gayer than he’d ever intended to be. The idea was unsettling, but he couldn’t say he regretted any of it. The look on Castiel’s face when he came…the sound of his gravelly voice saying Dean’s name… Yeah, any amount of gayness was worth that. And it really wasn’t about the sex, with Cas. It never had been. That was still as weird to him as the _gay_ thing, but, again, good weird, not bad weird. He wondered how Sam would react to him ‘settling down’ with anyone, let alone Castiel.

He was dreading telling him. That was apparent in that, yeah, he’d put it off for literally months, but he wasn’t merely nervous; he _knew_ full wellSam wouldn’t approve. Even if that Ruby bitch had been a bit of a loose-cannon, there hadn’t been anything inherently frowned upon in the nature of their relationship. Not like him and Cas. He had had a dream, a few nights previous, that Castiel was an actual angel, rather than just being named for one, and that he had fallen from grace for Dean, which—utterly ridiculous, yeah—but still not helping his massive guilt complex. He hadn’t mentioned the dream to Cas. He wasn’t feeling up to another lecture about how all the world’s problems weren’t his responsibility, and that he shouldn’t take their weight onto himself. Because this time, it _was_ his fault. He was the one who had pushed things past their breaking point.

It was with mixed feelings that he opened the door to his apartment, guilty about Cas and anxious about Sam, but still with a spring in his step. After all, he _had_ gotten laid the night before, and it had been fucking _awesome._

Well, might as well get it out of the way. He unlocked his phone and scrolled down his contacts to Sam’s name, hesitating an embarrassingly long time before finally hitting the call button.

The phone rang for a long time—Dean was half-relieved, thinking it would go to voicemail and he could put this off a while longer, but, no, at the last second, Sam picked up.

“Dean, hi,” he said, sounding vaguely distracted. Dean must have caught him at work.

“Hi, Sam. Sammy. Hi,” Dean replied, mentally kicking himself. _That_ didn’t sound suspicious at all.

“What did you do?” Sam asked, picking up on it immediately.

“Uh, well,” Dean began, wincing. “You know how we’re getting dinner tonight?”

“I do recall those five conversations,” Sam replied nonchalantly, with a weak laugh.

“Uh, yes, well, I was just thinking…you wouldn’t mind if I brought someone along, would you?”

“Tell me you don’t have a long-lost son from one of your one-night stands, please,” Sam said.

“Ah, no,” Dean replied.

“Daughter?”

“ _No!_ ” He answered, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “I’m seeing someone, okay?”

“Like, more than once?” Sam asked after a long pause. The best word Dean could come up with to describe his tone was ‘flabbergasted.’

“Yes.”

“For how long?!”

“Debatable, but, two months or so.”

“And you didn’t tell me?!”

“With everything going on…”

“ _And you didn’t tell me?!”_

“I—“

“Your only brother!”

“Look, Sam—“

“Who is it? Someone I know?”

“You’ve…met. Briefly,” Dean answered, knowing that Sam wouldn’t need much more information to piece everything together. His brother was a genius, and sometimes it was annoying as hell.

“Oh god. It’s Castiel,” Sam announced flatly, validating Dean’s internal monologue. He winced again and didn’t reply. His silence was more than enough of an answer. “I cannot believe this,” Sam said. “Do you know how wrong it is for you to be dating your therapist?!”

“He’s not,” Dean interjected.

“Since when?”

“Since about two months ago when he turned in his license and gave up his career.” The _‘for me’_ was unspoken, but he knew they both heard it.

“That’s…really. Wow. Um. Serious.”

“Yeah. I know.”

There was a long silence on both ends of the line, and Sam was the one to finally break it. “You’ve been different lately. I’d have to be blind not to have noticed.”

When he didn’t go on, Dean prompted him, “Good different or bad different?”

“Good, good,” Sam assured him. “Definitely good. More together, more…you, if that makes any sense. Happier, too. Not as angry. I mean, you’re looking into schools, Dean, and reading something other than Playboy. It’s him—he made the difference, didn’t he?”

He took a deep breath, collecting himself. He knew exactly what Sam meant. When he looked back on himself a year ago, he saw a man who was hollow, a veneer of masks and posturing covering a deep dark emptiness. Or maybe it was more of a black hole, where anything that he might actually _feel_ got crushed and compacted until it might as well be nothing but emptiness, and, wow, seriously, he was studying too much; he was seeing metaphors in everything now. Point was, he _was_ a lot more solid, now. But Sam’s assumption wasn’t quite accurate. “One of the first things Cas managed to get into my head was that the only way I would change was if I _wanted_ to change. So maybe he pushed me in the right direction, yeah, but I wouldn’t put all the credit on him.” He smiled cheekily as he said the last bit. He knew Sam would be able to hear it in his voice, just as he could hear Sam’s eye-roll in the silence that followed.

When he replied, though, his voice was somber. “Yeah, okay. Dean, I won’t deny that I’m still not comfortable with him being your ex-counselor, but it sounds to me like he’s been good for you. So I’ll at least try to get over my reservations.”

Dean let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Thanks, Sammy. And it’s okay if he comes to dinner?”

“Yeah. Of course it is.”

Dean smiled tightly, pretending his eyes weren’t wet, and thanked Sam, before saying goodbye.

A part of him was suspicious, was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but that was a part of him that he’d largely left behind since waking up in the hospital, nearly a year ago. Now, he had a lot of things going for him, and for once, he didn’t feel the need to find fault, to search out cracks where disaster could be waiting to strike. He was completely aware that things weren’t perfect, that sometimes he still woke up in the middle of the night craving a drink, or that he still had plenty of emotional issues to sort through, but that didn’t stop things from being _good._

He wondered, vaguely, what his father would think of him, now. And then he realized that for the first time in his life, he simply didn’t care.

**_Epilogue: Animal Life_ **

“Cas, have you seen my psychology notebook?” Dean called from the living room.

“It’s on the table in here,” Castiel replied more sedately from where he was putting dishes away.

He placed the last few cups in the cabinet and was closing the door when he felt arms wrap around him from behind. With a small smile, he leaned back into the embrace, turning his head to meet Dean’s lips in a quick kiss.

“You know, my psych prof is a real bitch. Too bad I couldn’t take classes from the _other_ professor. I hear he’s awesome, and pretty hot, too.”

Castiel sighed and turned around so they were face-to-face. “You know it would be unethical for me to have you in any of my classes, Dean.”

“I know, I know. I’m just teasing you,” he said with a smile, turning to fetch a can of soda from the refrigerator and sit down where his notebook was lying open. “But, seriously, Doctor Nelson _is_ a bitch, and Jo raves about your class every time I talk to her.”

Castiel smiled again and shrugged, secretly pleased. Teaching classes at a university level _had_ always been his dream, and to hear that his students thought well of him—it actually meant a lot. He had been informed that his ‘career record’ had made them nervous, but the university was desperate for a professor to take over half the introductory psychology lectures, and Castiel was happy to take the job, previous ‘indiscretions’ aside. After his first semester, he thought he had won many of his colleagues over. When Dean began attending the university in the spring semester, they had gotten nervous _again,_ but Dean had been his usual charming self, and had won them over as well.

“Miss Harvelle is an excellent student,” he replied at last, taking the seat across the table from Dean.

“Jo’s great. I’m glad she decided to go back to school, too,” Dean said, popping his drink open and leafing through the book.

“Exam this week?” Castiel asked, figuring as much since he was also giving his midterms that week.

“Yeah, Thursday. Along with bio, and I’ve got chem and philosophy on Friday,” he grumbled, still flipping pages. Castiel grimaced in sympathy. He remembered those years.

“Well, don’t stay up too late, studying. It’s not helpful, in the long run.”

Dean looked up with a smirk. “Sure thing, _Doctor_ Novak.”

“This doctor had a Ph.D. in unhealthy behavior,” Castiel shot back, returning the smile. Dean laughed. His sense of humor was rubbing off on Castiel, even if the myriad pop culture references still flew over his head ninety percent of the time.

He sat at the table another few minutes, watching Dean study and debating whether he ought to get his laptop and finish writing his test now. Finally, he decided to, since his first class to take it would be in two days. Quietly, he got up, walking down the hall to the bedroom, where his laptop was charging on top of the dresser. Next to it was a picture of him and Dean, in a simple black frame. Sam had taken the picture—Castiel was laughing from something he had said, and Dean was looking fondly at him. He and Dean had both been nervous, at first, but he and Sam actually got along so well Dean occasionally got frustrated and left them alone to “get all their geek out before it infected him.” But he knew Dean was pleased. He unplugged his laptop and took the charger from the wall, rolling up the cord and putting it in one of the drawers.

Not so long ago, half of that dresser had been empty, but time had passed and slowly more and more of Dean’s things had migrated to new homes at Castiel’s house. He still kept his apartment, but the only things there anymore (not counting the furniture) were dishes, his books and records, and a few of his least-favorite shirts. He would have to formally ask Dean to move in with him, soon. There was no point to paying rent on a place he never spent any time at.

And besides, his own house seemed much less hollow with Dean there, his casual clutter at odds with Castiel’s Spartan sense of cleanliness. For the first time, his house began to feel like home, and he knew that it had everything to do with the man in the kitchen. He took the laptop back and resumed his place at the table, opening up his half-written test. Dean looked up and graced him with a smile. Castiel returned it.

They both worked in silence, clicking keys and turning pages the only sounds in the room. Castiel was five, maybe six questions from the end of his exam when he heard Dean close his notebook entirely and he looked up to find him raising his arms into the air behind his head, stretching.

“I’m pretty sure I can’t memorize another thing tonight,” he admitted.

“You off to bed?” Castiel asked.

“I think so,” he got out of his char, then paused, “You coming?”

He smiled, considering it, but, his test was so close to being done…it wouldn’t take him more than a few minutes. “In a little bit. I’m almost done writing this,” he said, gesturing at his laptop.

“Okay. Don’t wait until you’re _too_ tired, okay?” Dean said with that look on his face that usually indicated that Castiel was going to have a _very_ good night.

“I won’t,” he promised, body flushing with anticipation.

“Good. ‘Night, Cas. Love you,” Dean said before turning and leaving the kitchen. Castiel stared after him, a huge, giddy smile breaking out on his face, the kind that wrinkled his nose and made his eyes water and he hadn’t experienced in _years._ That was the first time Dean had admitted that he loved him, slipping out so casually that Castiel _knew_ it had been thought a thousand times. He almost gave up on the test then, to finish it in the morning, but, no, he could write the questions quickly. He thought of Dean, stripping down and crawling under the blankets on his— _their—_ bed and shivered. _Very_ quickly.

But as he stared at the document, he found himself sitting there longer than he intended, just thinking—about was how much things had changed since he had met Dean, over a desk, hostility and billions of layers of emotional issues between them. But the floodwaters had receded, the walls broken down, and what they were building never ceased to amaze him. It was wonderful, flawed, beautiful, and _his._ Even if his family still ostracized him without ever actually leaving him alone, and they more or less hated Dean, it didn’t matter to him like it had before.

Perfection, after all, wasn’t a prerequisite for happiness, and Castiel could honestly say that he had the latter.

**Author's Note:**

> This was...exhausting and took considerably longer than it should have, given the length. We'll put it down to being my first go at fanfic since I was in middle school. Um, not too much to say other than I absolutely do not, under any circumstances, endorse attempted seduction of a counselor, ever. Ever. Seriously, that's bad mojo.  
> Also, this fic owes a huge debt to the music of Shearwater. All of the 'scene' titles, minus one, are taken from "Animal Life," and the other one from "An Insular Life." The title is from "A Hush." And I would declare the 'theme song' of this to be "I'm So Glad." So, yes, consider that a playlist if you wish.  
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading! I'm hoping you enjoyed it.  
> My beta was bluelipsdoeeyes on LJ, and I owe her a million thanks.


End file.
